明治劇談ランプの下にて
Talks on Meiji Era Theatre - Under the Lamp
岡本 綺堂
Okamoto Kido
Published as a series in 1935 and then in full as ‘Meiji Gekidan Ranpu no Shita ni te’ (On the Theatre of the Meiji Period - Under the Lamp) by Iwanami Shoten in 1993. These extracts are from the serialisation which appeared in the late 1920s early 1930s in the Tokyo Kabukiza Monthly Kabuki Review magazine as ‘Sugi ni shi Monogatari’ (Stories of the Past)
Translated by Trevor Skingle
目次 Contents
小序 Small Preface
Part 1 守田勘弥 Morita Kan’ya
Part 2 新富座見物 The Shintomiza audience
Part 3 市川団十郎 Ichikawa Danjūrō
Part 4 似顔絵と双六 Kabuki Star Portraits and Sugoroku Board games
Part 5 興行困難時代 A Difficult Time for Performances
Part 6 番附と絵本 Performance Advertising Posters and Picture Books
Part 7 団十郎の活歴 Danjūrō’s Variety of Katsureki History Plays
Part 8 千歳座見物 Chitoseza sightseeing (dedicated to the memory of Nakamura
Kanzaburo XVIII)
Part 9 鳥熊の芝居 Torikuma (no) Shibai
Part 10「船弁慶」と「夢物語」 Funa Benkei (Benkei on the Boat) and Yumei Monogatari (A Tale of a Dream aka The Tale of Lusheng’s Dream Story)
Part 11 演劇改良と改作 Drama improvement and adaptation
Part 12 鶴蔵と伝五郎Tsuruzō and Dengorō
Part 13「文覚勧進帳」 Mongaku Kanjinchō (Mongaku’s Subscription List)
Part 14 歌舞伎座の新開場 The Scene at the opening of the new Kabukiza Theatre
Part 15 新蔵と鴈治郎 Shinzō and Ganjirō
Part 16昔の新聞劇評家 Former Newspaper Drama Critics
Part 17 男女合併興行の許可 Danjo Gappei Kōgyō Men and women together in the
world of the theatre
Part 18 菫坡老人と桜痴居士 Kinha Snr. and Ōchi Koji
Part 19 川上のオッペケ節 Kawakami (Otojirō)’s Satirical Song on Society (Oppeke Bushi)
Part 20 朝鮮公使の抗議 Korean Official Objection
Part 21 明治二十六、七年（上）Meiji 26 (1893) – Meiji 27 (1894) looking back
Part 22 明治二十六、七年（下）Meiji 26 (1893) – Meiji 27 (1894) looking forward
Part 23 紅葉館の劇談会 Kōyōkan’s Drama Studies Association
Part 24 演伎座の新蔵 Engiza’s Ichikawa Shinzō V
Part 25 木挽町の書生芝居 Shosei Shibai Drama at Kobiki-chō
Part 26「暫」と「助六」‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) and ‘Sukeroku’
Part 27 三人の死 Three People’s deaths’
Part 28 「暁雨」と「小猿七之助」Gyoū’ and ‘Kozaru Shichinosuke’
Part 29 又三郎と紅車 Matasaburō and Kōsha
Part 30 四代目芝翫 Shikan IV
Part 31 子供芝居 Children’s Drama
Part 32 五万円問題The Fifty Thousand Yen Problem
Part 33 その頃の戯曲界 Categories of Play at the time
Part 34 自作初演の思い出 Recollections of the First Performance of My Own Work
Part 35 晩年の菊五郎 The Last Years of Kikugorō
Part 36 団十郎の死 The Death of Danjūrō
Part 37 日露戦争前後 Before and After the Russo-Japanese War

‘Meiji Gekidan Ranpu no Moto Ni Te’ (Talks on the Theatre of the Meiji Period

- Under the Lamp) by Okamoto Kidō - English Translation by Trevor Skingle
岡

本

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Talks on the Theatre of the Meiji Period - Under the Lamp
Okamoto Kido

Published initially as a series in the late 1920s early 1930s in the Tōkyō publication
Kabukiza Kabuki Review Magazine as ‘Sugi ni shi Monogatari’ (Stories of the Past) it
was then published as ‘Meiji Gekidan Ranpu no Moto Ni Te’ (Talks on the Theatre of
the Meiji Period - Under the Lamp) by Okakura in March Showa 10 (1935), by
Seiabo in 1965, and by Iwanami Shoten in 1993 and 2008. In this document Parts 10
and 12 were translated from the serialisation ‘Sugi Nishi Monogatari’ (Stories of the
Past). The remainder was translated from Aozora Bunko’s on line publication in full
of the 1935 edition. English Translation by Trevor Skingle.

Performances traditionally begin with a first act, followed by the middle act, and then
the second act
Actors’ names given family name first
Play titles given in first in English. Where a play title is not readily translatable it is
given in Japanese
Newspaper titles are given first in Japanese

Crossroads at Ten Bells on a Frosty Night (Shimoyo no Kane Jūji no Tsujiura by
Kawatake Mokuami) – Picture Book of Plays – Picture Shop – Feelings on the Early
Arrival of Spring – Wearing the Rokusa Hairstyle

The Appearance of Political Youth Drama (Sōshi Shibai) of the Shinpa or New
School of Acting - Kawakami arrives in Tōkyō - Gidayū Musicians Starting in
Historical Drama (Shigeki) - In the Tight Sleeves of a Battle Surcoat (Jinbaori) -
Drama Criticism that was Infuriated Criticism

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Part 20 Korean Official Objection

The Entertainment Association of Japan –‘The Taiko Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Korean
War Chronicle’ (Taikō Gunki Chōsen no Maki) – The Loyalty and Bravery of the
Conqueror of the East - Author’s Room Salary - Script Fees for ‘Hirano Jirō’
(Translator’s note: About an anti-foreign samurai from Hakata)

Part 21 Meiji 26 (1893) – Meiji 27 (1894) Looking Back

Mokuami Dies – Kakitsu’s Death – The Indignation of an Author and Actor – The
Meijiza Theatre Established – Opening the Doors after New Year’s Week

Part 22 Meiji 26 (1893) – Meiji 27 (1894) Looking Forward

Puppet Plays – Dream World – The First Sino-Japanese War – Asakusaza Theatre’s
Full House – Establishing the Basis of Shosei Shibai’s Social and Political Drama –
Kabuki on the Losing Side

Danjūrō’s Disciple at Work – The Tragedy of Shinzō – Today’s Nichirō Role
Specialist Actor – Shinzō’s Strong and Popular Roles – The Witch’s Voice

Part 25 Shosei Shibai Drama at Kobiki-chō (Translator’s note: The location of
the Kabukiza Theatre)

A Question for the Stage – The Show Business Combination of Men and Women – A
War Song of the Sino-Japanese War (Translator’s note: About Ding Ruchang the
Chinese Admiral who built up China’s first modern Navy) – Kawakami’s Theatre
World Innovations – Byakkotai White Tiger Force Drama

Part 26 ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) and ‘Sukeroku’

An Eighteen Year Interval for ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) – The Magnificence and
Splendour of the Stage – Yaozō’s Kiyomori – ‘Sukeroku’ – An Audience’s Fortitude –
The Sly Horikawa

Dr. Tsubōchi’s New Historical Drama – Drama Journal’s Rejection – Shinsaku’s New
Production of Akugenta – An Interval of Poor Turnout – Shinsaku’s New Production
of Uesugi Kenshin

Part 34 Recollections of the First Performance of My Own Work

The Second Collaboration of Three people – The Company’s Drama Apprentice
Artisans on Holiday – The Attitude of the Resident Theatre Author – It’s the Shikiri
Scene Professionally Written – The Failure of the First Campaign

Part 35 The Last Years of Kikugorō

Kampei’s Michiyuki Travel Dance – Art’s Tender Spirit – Yamanaka Heikurō – The
Final Part of Benten Kozō – The Sadness of Old Age

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Part 36 The Death of Danjūrō

Another Showing of Lady Kasuga no Tsubone – Kakitsu’s Name Change – One
Evening at Oomori – The Decline of Kabuki – After the Deaths of Dangiku (Danjūrō
and Kikugorō)

This year, so I’ve been told, it’s pretty well known that Kikugorō V’s memorial
performance is taking place on the 33rd anniversary of his death. So even now after
such a long time there’s still a sense of longing for the theatrical world of the distant
past, of the Meiji era.

Those bygone days of that theatrical world were of course in the end to disappear,
collected like windswept petals which resulted in this book. Of course factual
historical records of the Meiji era’s theatrical world which have disappeared have
been replaced here by an old exiled playwright’s overblown reminiscences

For me the book is made complete by what is discussed in its pages; quite simply
my distant, albeit reliable, recollections. See how it was, hear how it was, and then
continue to enjoy the gossip even when tired. Some of the stories, recollected to the
best of my ability are not, but might be mistaken for, hearsay; “judgements made in
advance” are premature.

Now society is in the era of the electric train and the automobile. Electric and gas
lights are also both used in Government offices, banks, corporations, factories, small
stores and have some limited use in other ancillary services, though the use of these
sorts of lamps at home is scarce and not used in every residence. Consequently this
reminiscence is being revealed from under a sufficiently dazzling electric light. I don’t
know. Perhaps this sort of tale should be told from under a gloomy lamp?

The significance is in the chosen title, ‘Lamp’. So without prejudice reader pretend
that under an electric light it’s possible to relive that old familiar atmosphere in which
this book can be read from cover to cover, and bring good fortune to its author.

Proposing the above mentioned story won’t hide my age. That year the solar
calendar changed so I was born in the winter of October 1872. At around that time
the price of rice was extraordinarily cheap. As I understand it one koku was as little
as three yen sixty sen. I was born, so to speak, in a past period populated by an
optimistic people. It’s not so essential to say the reason for the causes for this and
unnecessary from the outset to say in advance why as this would require a special
examination and exploration for the underlying reason, and this is not the right place
or opportunity to accomplish this. In the event the tale that follows from my uncertain
recollection is told from my observations. Whether or not this has value is a natural
consequence of being apt to relate the story from my own viewpoint. For me my
autobiography is by no means as a result of a passion for writing though the fact that
my writing brush is persistent is reason enough. What’s more the desire to write this
stems from an ulterior motive of a previously felt and honourable sentiment.

Starting from birth I was wrapped up in the so called atmosphere of the world of the
theatre. It was February 1875 when the Moritaza Theatre was renamed Shintomiza.
That February’s show was ‘Ōgi Byōshi Ōoka Seidan’ – the aforementioned was
about Ten’ichi the Priest, newly written by Kawatake Mokuami who in those days
was probably about 60 years old, something which I knew later. Well, even if I did
know that, I didn’t know much until years later when I knew it was the play about
Ōoka (Tadasuke)’s legal case surrounding the actions of the Mountain Priest
Ten’ichi*. In those days I was two years and four months old so of course I didn’t
know much.

*Translator’s note: Early 18th century priest put to death for falsely claiming to be the
son of the Shōgun

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Moritaza Theatre, 1872

As a matter of fact saying that it was the only thing I needed they (my parents) took
me along to the Shintomiza Theatre. My very childish recollections stayed with me,
though perhaps not knowing whether to believe what could possibly have been
forced on me by my parents and my older sister. Anyway, to begin with I obeyed the
rules and didn’t consider any alternative. And then during that time, by observing the
so called national history of the country’s theatre and that of my Lord, a number of
connections were made. Then the so named Shintomiza Theatre eventfully opened
for the first time in Tōkyō. What I remember is that it remained in a rundown district
for fifty years or more. In those days my home was at Nigō Hanzaka of Iita-chō
Street in Kōjimachi District.

Nigō Hanzaka, 1898

In the summer of that year we moved to my home at Motozono-chō Block One
Number 19 in Kōjimachi District. Kōjimachi’s main street ran from Sanban-chō Main
Street to Omote Dōri. As one would expect most of the housing was a continuation
of the wooden planking type buildings. My home stood in a little section somewhat
back a little from the highway surrounded on one side by a meadow where rabbits,
foxes and songbirds appeared. It was scene of wilderness. From the rear of my
home a pathway led out through a gated entrance. In those days at the top of the hill
was shop, now long gone, called Kagoya where the manageress was a women’s
hairdresser who rented out one of her rooms to an artisan called Sada Hangiya san.
On the other side of the road was Hirachan’s shoe store. Those people were
theatregoers whose gatherings became rather like a comical play. I also agreed to
show up and accompany them when they met up together and though my

Further personal direction came from cultivating my playtime’s hobby. I was indebted
to the daughter of Tei san, the women’s hairdresser whose daughter was learning
Tokiwazu. My parents and the local traders also trained later obtaining grades from
the head of the school’s accreditation master. The training was very strict and almost
invariably practice would continue from morning till night becoming better practised
at chanting as rehearsals continued and I would appear by the back door to pay
attention to their respectable Tokiwazu practice. To that is owed my unskilful learning
by heart by the time I was seven years old of the successive second and third
versions of the vow of Sono Rokusa (the Ballad of the unhappy lovers geisha Osono
and carpenter Rokusa) and, “Sayoginu Sentarō’s” fading voices of the autumn frogs.
Also my neighbour called Mochizuki Takiji san, a woman’s Nagauta teacher, lived on
the eastern side where my older sister practised. It wasn’t just my older sister as
many children came by and while I played in the garden I could frequently hear my
neighbours practice sessions. Thanks to that I again memorized ‘Echigojishi’,
‘Yoshiwara Suzume’ and ‘Kanjinchō’.

Kanjinchō at either the Nakamuraza or the Shintomiza in 1890 by Hosai Baido
(From the translator’s collection)

I would venture out in public for Nagauta and from the back door each time for
Tokiwazu and I came under this dual attack every day though it wasn’t overdone as
my musical taste was developing as is usual for a child. Apart from Nagauta practice
my older sister went to the address of the dance master the honourably chivalrous
man Fujima in Yamato-chō Street. That month my mother frequently appeared in the
neighbourhood as she went to the rehearsals. On one occasion, in about the second
year and as was customary, large scale rehearsals were held in the large rented
neighbourhood meeting room called Musasha. That year both hairpieces and wigs
were worn and on that occasion as my older sister danced koshi (lowered hips and
back) I went to play in Musasha’s gakuya (dressing room). On that occasion as I
recall I dressed up in my sisters costume and, with a lot of effort, waved a fan from
behind. In those circumstances and from that children’s event I got to know
“Gompachi Komurasaki”, “Ochiudo”, “The Barrier Gate” (Seki no To), and “The
Monkey Skin Quiver” (Utsu Bozaru).

It was in this way that the dance rehearsal often became something of a farce. In fact
I was 8 years old in the spring of March 1879 when I watched the performance
though I was unable to recall at all having seen Ōoka Seidan though I think that this

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was the start of being able to speak well and a beginning of some substance. I had
watched this play before Morita Kan’ya (XII) was accepted as the Shintomiza
Theatre’s proprietor, something which his father, Kan’ya XI, had also been.

Shintomiza Theatre, 1878

In June of the previous year the opening of the newly rebuilt Shintomiza Theatre, to
which every foreigner was invited, took place in the Capital. At the same time as the
promotional invitation was sent out by someone to the foreigners of the Legation of
Great Britain a great many of them gave presents to the Shintomiza Theatre. My
father was working for the British Legation and had, moreover, around that time
became acquainted with and then became friends with Danjūrō. Subsequently
discussions ensued at the Shintomiza Theatre where, with the proprietor Morita’s
extraordinary pleasure, a specially adapted stage curtain was going to be presented
to commemorate the event, a transition from old to new, it was said. So… that stage
curtain… …what was chosen was an original, tough and demanding design. It was
all purple silk and in the centre was sewn an auspicious grouping of emblems of
pine, bamboo and plum in the centre of which was the Shintomiza Theatre family’s
crest, the sorrel leaf (katabami), sewn in such a way as to make it stand out. After it
was given, in March of the following show business year it was hung from the stage
of the Shintomiza Theatre.

A facsimile of the curtain presented to Morita Kan’ya at the Shintomiza
by the British Legation in 1879 on the cover of the play book Akematsu Manyū Ume no Shirahata
(Akematsu Manyū and the White Plum Banner)
http://www.wul.waseda.ac.jp/kotenseki/html/chi13/chi13_04418/index.html

In the last third of January that year it was very noisy. On a Sunday afternoon I
played with the other neighbourhood children on a vacant plot of land at the side of
the house. The weather was fine and it was a mild day. In a corner of an adjacent

12
plot of vacant land was a pile of timbers heaped one on top of the other on top of
which a little snow had survived from two or three days before. Always when it (the
snow) arrived to cover and burden all life tradition had it that a shibu uchiwa (fan
varnished with persimmon juice) was carried around (a comment on life from the
Teimon School of poetry meaning to beat off cloying sentiment).

This life seemed such a burden for a family with samurai ancestry. A samurai… …a
braided topknot and a knife attached to a sword sheath who also practised Kiyomoto
(a type of Jōruri narrative) and appeared to be changing from old to new. Wasn’t it
stylish, and even now what was said stays with me. My father seemed bound to the
old Edo period.

It would seem that at ease with all those honourable old customs and visiting my
home wearing essentially elegant clothing such as a Haori (sleeveless over jacket)
decorated with one’s crest, and with the rickshaw man holding up something striking
for him wrapped in a furoshiki (decorated wrapping cloth), the elder inside looked
towards this child and asked, “This is where the Okamoto san household is, is it
not?” And I, keen to be riding on my bamboo horse, replied cheerfully “My home is
there” and pointed out the house. That person smiled sweetly and laughed bowing
politely, “Indeed! So it is, isn’t it? Thank you very much!”

Glancing over in the direction of the back door the man seemed as though he was
going to enter while I, sitting quickly on my bamboo horse, told him again, “Over
there is the gate” to which he replied, “Ha! So it is, isn’t it?” and overdoing it a bit
again politely bowed and then moved off towards the rear door’s wicket gate. Yes, I
thought in my childish mind, he was, ‘overly polite’, and yes he was ‘mild mannered’.
Afterwards I heard that the man was Morita Kan’ya.

At another time Morita arrived at my father’s address responding to concerns about
the above mentioned stage curtain. I returned home after about half an hour when in
our eight tatami mat room he was chatting mysteriously with my father in low tones
and at times laughter could be heard. At that hour Morita had returned and seeing
my mother said, “Now… …I would like to visit frequently” and so on. At the time
Morita arrived bringing as a gift a large wooden box of Western confectionary from
the confectionary company Fūgetsudo. Around 1879 Western confectionary and
other items were being used when Westernisation was in what is today called
amongst other things fashionable and modern which was, in my humble opinion,
being much sought after. It was said that “Morita was an altogether different man”.

Fūgetsudo in Ueno, 1872

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As part of the March theatre season the Shintomiza finally opened on the 18 th
February and honoured, the stage curtain was hung in the usual way. I heard
afterwards that the issue that was addressed was the total cost of the curtain, a
superb item, which was met at the expense of the foreigners. In the beginning Morita
wondered how much of an addition to the theatre it would be. The above mentioned
topic about the splendid end product was talked about, as well as the bill having
been paid for completely. I learnt that the stage curtain was presented amidst
various proud boasts and as a result was deemed as satisfactory for the stage.
Similarly for the same reason father, mother and older sister as well as an aunt and
uncle joined up with friends from the neighbourhood and arranged for ten of us to
watch the event at the Shintomiza.

If I recall correctly the show was at the Shintomiza. As would be expected that day,
9th March, I committed to memory. I remember that immediately after breakfast was
finished, at about 8am, I changed into a kimono. I was wearing a black Hachijo silk
padded topcoat with a family crest emblazoned raw silk cloth Haori over jacket and
both the inner and outer features of my clothes were somewhat mapped out and I
wore Hakama trousers in thick black and, similar to the colour of the earth, greenish-
brown stripes. Though it was cold I travelled from Motozono-chō Street in a rickshaw
that swayed considerably. The revolving lantern gradually made visible the unusual
scenes going along the highway, something which children at that time were
delighted with. In those days it was dangerous for both rickshaws and cars to be
near each other. Every day in public there were collisions and regrettably a man
might be run over and have to be rescued by others. I was heading to and arrived at
the theatre teahouse called Kikuoka where I removed my hakama trousers though
right from the start my father left his on.

I was shown around the place by the teahouse’s young man. I discovered later that
ours was a west sajiki balcony seat. As for the plays, these I also knew about later
on. First was “Akamatsu Manyū and the White Plum Banner” (Akamatsu Manyū Ume
no Shirahata – adapted for Kabuki by Kawatake Mokuami and premiered at the
Shintomiza in February 1879). The middle act was “The Subscription List”
(Kanjinchō), and the second act “Money Takes Care of Everything” (Ningen Banji
Kane no Yo No Naka by Kawatake Mokuami and based on “Money” by Edward
Bulwer-Lytton). The final act was called “First Spring Blossoms Scenery - the music
of a Nightingale” (Kai Ka no Haruiro Ne no Uguisu) which was staged as a Jōruri
Kiyomoto Tokiwazu duet. I took into consideration what kind of thing this strange
Jōruri was. The lead actor in the so called “First Spring Blossoms” was seen to
brighten up “civilisation”; the influence of the style of the so called Westernising
Movement (Bunmei kaika) was something to be considered.

This was more so because of the familiarity with the theatre’s dance rehearsals and
though convenient was an unusual reason. I had worked out where I could
enthusiastically view what was going on in the theatre. Anyway, this play had a well-
developed and unusually elaborate complexity. My preference was for “The
Fugitives” (Okaru Kampei aka Ochiudo, or Michiyuki Tabiji no Hanamuko, Travel
Dance of the Groom’s Journey) and “Gompachi Komurasaki” though I had just about
as crude a background knowledge as could be and didn’t comprehend very well
what was happening. The first part was mostly characterful to which absurdly on and
off attention was paid. Which one was the adversary and which one was the ally? A
distinction that was devilishly unclear. This appeared to me as what is ordinary and

15
by no means beautiful and unattractive and what’s more with people often just
swishing round and round in circles and making an odd din. Here the rehearsal for
Oo-Yakko san (big servant, referring to Banzuin Chōbei, a type of machi-yakko)
shouldn’t be compared with or limit his grandiose appearance and splendid stage
reputation. I wept more because of the finale of the act that I saw in front of me in
which I was deeply engrossed. During the interval I bought and ate a very delicious
appetiser.

I thought likewise about the next play which was supposed to be exceedingly good.
In practical terms it was, in spite of the reputation of those in front of me,
considerably difficult to follow the complicated storyline. On reflection in a way it was
more than a little misunderstood and the plot lost. The personalities on stage barely
moved, and how was it that the long dialogue during the copious scenes, which I
found fairly burdensome, was considered suitable for me to like? How splendid the
Feudal Lord (Sōjūrō’s Ashikaga Yoshinori) was, appearing in the inner garden scene
when for disrespect, a beautiful woman (Hanshirō’s concubine Koben) suffered
punishment by way of execution. And why it took so much longer with all the talking
and the lament for that woman’s death I was unable to understand. I was
inconvenienced indeed that it went on for a disagreeably long time. There followed a
scene set in a large mansion, a suitable single stage design where Danjūrō’s
Akamatsu Mitsusuke appeared sitting. Was my sight deceived but was Akamatsu
Mitsusuke’s head largely shaven – that Japan’s top actor Danjūrō was directing this
thing for me was exceptional in that as one of his outstanding fans I wasn’t
impressed. It was a chaotic scene in which Mr Talented man chose at the worst
possible moment to do nothing but talk something which I increasingly failed to
understand.

At the end of this scene (Sōjūrō’s Urakami Danjō) wore a sparkling samurai costume
while the earlier role played by Danjūrō performed a hara-kiri scene. Momentarily
suited to the role the katana was violently thrust into his belly at which point he
started crawling, going round and round at the front of the stage appearing to say

16
that the reason for the hara-kiri isn’t that it was not an unusual thing to do which for
me was a peculiar thought. As with this sort of material shown first I was
consequently very troubled with the second scene. That day the play was very
disappointing for the audience I think. That this was the case at the time is my clear
recollection because it returned to my thoughts. Both this and the second act were
extremely boring though in spite of this the second act eventually became very
interesting. About the scene in front of the gate of Akamatsu’s Mansion and inside
the Shirahata Jō Castle in the second scene; in front of the gate there was a
tachimawari fight scene and later inside the castle the hard fighting armoured warrior
(Sadanji’s Atsumi Gorō) fights all the opposing army before he makes a report to his
commander Mitsusuke. I think that from that point on I considered this sort of play’s
fixed formulaic structure. In those days I was in this regard really struck with stirring
emotion. Without a doubt in those days in practical terms the founding Sadanji’s tour
was satisfying and he trod the boards with a remarkably energetic performance. The
evidence for this could be found in my childish weeping and the entire audience
appeared to stare intently at the stage taking in everything that was happening. Over
and over again the performer’s name was heard being shouted and clapped. No
more evidence was needed because at the time it wasn’t customary to applaud like
that at the theatre.

In the intermission I went along with my father to other places around the theatre.
Today’s theatre sandal straps are made in an ordinary blue style but then as I recall
zōri sandals were designed in white and red with a thick twisted cotton thong and
were known by the name “fukuzōri”. The sandal strap was strongly made from thick
wound paper and they were rugged and very difficult to wear out. In front of the
theatre’s terrace there were many theatre manager’s and actors’ presentation
banners swaying on the roofs of the Tsukiji neighbourhood’s theatres. There were
seats lining both sides of the theatre and also a theatre tea house under the edge of
the roof. In front of the seats the street ran from Tsukijibashi Bridge through a
crossroads from where just about everyone was going into the theatre’s tea house.
With the flower patterned noren curtain and Japanese flower lanterns hanging in
profusion under the eaves one couldn’t wish to see a more gorgeous a spectacle.

This small section remaining here contains an explanatory note about this popular
theatre’s name. Of course the origin of the name of the theatre, the Shintomiza,
escapes me. Nowadays I’ve written about the Shintomiza Theatre but in those days
people called it the “Shimabara Playhouse” or something like that. In all honesty the
Shintomiza Theatre audience wasn’t small. In Meiji 1 (1868), the jaw dropping New
Shimabara Pleasure District was located nearby. On the 7th May an order was
issued for its removal. It was later that the so named Shintomi-chō Street was built
and as a result the new theatre, which was constructed in District 6, was usually
called the “Shimabara Playhouse”. That was then the custom amongst much older
people but with their passing the custom had, by Meiji 12 (1879), gradually vanished.
The name “Shintomi-chō”, as it was generally known, wasn’t always called that
because the name Shimabara wasn’t altogether lost.

At that time inside the theatre the undōba* there wasn’t spacious. For everyone the
intermission was very lengthy and the crowded audience liked to gather in front of
the theatre, rushing to slip on their fukuzōri sandals with their thick straps. Outside
they leisurely strolled along the highway which is now an electric tramway. Because

17
of this the fukuzōri sandals of the audience were much in evidence. Young men and
women seemingly wandered around the highway in groups talking loudly about what
they were thinking. I wandered from teahouse to teahouse, even being ushered in
through the front of the rice cookie shop’s entrance. That day amongst the business
products sold in the undōba were slips of paper on which fortune telling notes were
written which were contained inside yatsuhashi cinnamon cookies in wrapping paper
dyed yellowish-brown and red and blue with actors’ family crests and put in and lined
up in baskets. I pointed them out pleading with my father and though he had given
my mother his wallet said he would get some for me. For the next act he brought
them in with him saying that I had asked too much and that they were more trouble
than they were worth. In the theatre shop we were invited to sit by a young missus,
“a second helping of what’s left is the main thing, please, won’t you have any one of
these for your fortune?” she laughingly asked us both. Father laughed repeatedly. I
had one of the baskets containing the fortune telling notes whilst someone went to
get another four to share but we were given five instead. Of course the missus was
smooth tongued but not in regard to that discrepancy. Even though I was not her
friend I was freely friendly with those businesses whose products were given away
complimentary at the end. The effect of the fukuzōri sandals was nothing other than
truly winning for the missus whose trade prospered as a result of us trusting to our
Japanese sandals. I carried my basket of fortune telling notes, the street was
festooned with many springtime banners, cherry blossoms were being viewed and all
those other various things that creates children’s festive holiday mood.

*Translator’s note: undōba - a large enclosure surrounding the theatre, in which the
stall-keepers sell refreshments, photographs, toys, and all kinds of ornamental knick-
knacks

I was determinedly anticipating the staging of the middle act called “Kanjinchō”,
especially after the entire first play “Akamatsu Mitsusuke”. There was also something
like an announcement from the front thanking a neighbour and their teacher for their
Nagauta shamisen musical song and melody. My knowledge of the phrasing of
“Kanjinchō” was thorough to the extent that I knew and had memorised along with
my father that “the key part of the performance is the Inspector giving his help and
favour”. With additional background understanding like this I knew what to expect
and was curious of what various things were happening on the theatre stage. I was
extremely nervous when faced with this scene in the middle act. Soon Yoshitsune,
who was played by the actor Bandō Kakitsu I, the father of Uzaemon, suddenly
appeared through the agemaku entrance curtain at the rear of the hanamichi
walkway through the audience. As a group the big four appeared on the hanamichi
standing in a line behind him orientated towards the stage to reflect their relationship
with Yoshitsune as his followers. We had taken places on the west sajiki balcony
because of this and exchanged glances at the unmistakable sight of Yoshitsune and
his followers revealed. I became conspicuously visible as I watched these theatre
actors on stage because I had done it right from my birth. The other more plausible
reason was that in regard to the big four I threw caution to the wind. Wholeheartedly
I regarded the vision of Yoshitsune as nothing but beautiful and elegant. With
majesty Danjūrō’s Benkei appeared as the audiences’ enthusiasm erupted with
shouts of “Naritaya!” I felt uneasy as a consequence of Akamatsu Mitsusuke’s
appearance as a monk though my cautious perspective was unintentional. I thought
that Kakitsu was an absurdly good actor in the role of Yoshitsune. I was also pleased

18
with Atsumi Gorō’s report to his commander as well as Sadanji’s Togashi in
Kanjinchō. As for the rest I wasn’t totally delighted by the end. About the background
knowledge “the key part of the performance is the Inspector giving his help and
favour”, I was still disappointed as I wasn’t familiar with or noticed this.

A little after when the middle act, “Kanjinchō” had finished I went, led by my father, to
the dressing room. I was surprised on the way at how cluttered it was. A low
staircase led up a slope to the entrance. We met Morita Kan’ya who greeted us a
little more than courteously.

As I recollect Danjūrō’s dressing room wasn’t very busy though there were about
four or five people already waiting their turn some of whom gave up their seats. We
were allowed in and as we turned around in his dressing room there was the host,
Danjūrō appearing just like on the theatre stage, imposing and a man of pure talent.
There was a large mirror in front of a futon on which I was forced to sit as my father
looked at him and politely greeting him said, “Good day. A very good day for sure”.
After my father’s appearance conversation began but in a suitably low voice rather
than the loud theatre stage voice. As he appeared to have a small round mouth it
showed how effective his method of speaking was and he was listened to with great
interest. Tea was made nearby and handed out with sweets which Danjūrō looked at
and said, “Those sweets are for the young master… “. It was immediately apparent
he knew this. On a piece of smallish Japanese writing paper a piece of sponge cake
was offered to me. Facing towards him Danjūrō looked at me and sticking out his
chin said, “My friend for sure please do… “.

His way of speaking and behaving was incongruously in contrast with the manners of
Morita and the others. In my childlike mind experiencing those very ugly features and
that haughtiness made me ill at ease. Though faced with some dislike from the
others I nevertheless just nodded whilst avoiding looking at the sponge cake. At that
point Danjūrō turned towards my father and said, “This is an improvement from a
play” and then turning to me said laughingly, “You’re too young to be able to speak
properly, good plays are written in an unsophisticated way”.

Ichikawa Danjūrō IX

Though it really should be forgotten only here, where circumstances allow, for the
time being I can tell a simple, funny story. It was growing late and turning to my
father he said…

20
“I’d like to suggest something for everyone to do. Quickly! Throw things into the
author’s room opposite, at least one of us should be able to manage it I think”

In the old days I wasn’t the person I am now but then I seemed to be the only one
who was mature for my years. As I recollect, even though around that time being
only about eight years old, I was childishly indignant at what was happening and to
hear what Danjūrō said.

How odd that with those comments another child’s messy waste paper material was
systematically thrown into the author’s room. Truthfully I really thought that this
chivalrous man was acting in an extremely loutish fashion. Of course whatever
Danjūrō’s intention was he seemed to me inclined quite frankly in that situation to
have behaved unreasonably. Though I was disturbed by what happened I didn’t say
anything and anecdotally I must confess that unlike the others I felt quite indignant
on that day long ago. This was especially so because I was exceedingly
disappointed and in danger of losing any feeling I had for the plays of Japan’s so
called number one, Danjūrō, and felt all the more uneasy as a result. I for one truly
promised myself that “I was determined I would not, in any way, write anything to say
that all such a person’s plays were dull. They became increasingly exquisite”.

I remember that a couple of people were getting bored and restless and I for one
was already fed up with something that was really not worth considering. It then got
a bit complicated when Morita Kan’ya who on arrival, and as was customary, had
engaged in polite conversation. Though others arrived the topic of conversation
became increasingly exhausted. I was running out of conversation and as I was
being passed the plate with the sponge cake began eating – munch, munch.

In the rooms there were already gas lamps fitted even though discussions still
continued as to who should really have them installed. Incidentally, in his dressing
room Danjūrō was wearing the costume from Akamatsu Mitsusuke, what looked like
military uniform with hakama trousers but in a style that was somewhat more ancient
and a kimono the colour of tea stains. Something of a lecture began and as my
perseverance was running out I thoughtlessly stuffed my cheeks with sponge cake
and gulped down the tea with which he filled my cup. Certainly it would seem my
childish manners were fairly poor but then it was because I was a bit confused as to
what I should have been doing and how I should have been doing it.

Then from somewhere inside the theatre I heard a voice from far away and from
another direction wooden clappers. Morita directed me back saying “Now as for you
sonny boy… “. Nearby a man was standing who said, “I am here to lead you, please
follow!”. My father and me together said, “You go ahead and we’ll follow”. Looking
ahead I felt relieved and sighed, from a sense of being wholly hostage I had been
excused. I bowed to Morita and Danjūrō, Morita returned the bow silently and politely
whilst Danjūrō’s head went slightly back as he said, “And play on”. However in a
couple of moments I had, in spite of my feelings, arrived back with the left over
sponge cake in my kimono sleeve where I had put it and taking it out had eaten it as
I arrived back from the dressing room with the escort at the sajiki gallery before the
interval was over. What cost was incurred going to the dressing room didn’t concern
me and anyway with enough time to spare it suited me that the strict time for the
intermission was naturally just about coming to an end. Given that it was evening I

21
had started to feel a bit sleepy. The second act, which was “Money Takes Care of
Everything” (Ningen Banji Kane no Yo No Naka by Kawatake Mokuami and based
on “Money” by Edward Bulwer-Lytton) had ended when by and by I was sent home
with the neighbours while everyone else also headed off getting in to the rickshaws
and leaving for home. I was the next person in line so in the lull until I was sent off to
Motozono-Chō Street I retraced my steps to the Shintomiza Theatre but arrived
before the opening curtain on the final act. The increasingly long intermission had
got to me making me feel touchy. Though it wasn’t usual for many intermissions to
be so much longer somehow or other on that day the intermission pretty much felt
long enough. At the time I probably didn’t understand that this was the usual
practice.

My discussion is a little discourteous. At the time I was eating frequently at the
theatre intending to try out different things. There was an unappetising bean-jam
cake sort of thing that I left. After that a side dish with sake was served. Lunch was a
bentō box lunch. In the afternoon a serving of sushi was produced. In the evening I
went to the theatre tea house for food when a good supper of sashimi, stew and
cooked rice was eaten. Because of the length of the entertainment while in the
theatre meals were necessarily eaten twice. As was the habit on that day a variety of
food was regularly required, usually just various box lunches. In the Edo period it
was the custom and around that time perhaps I started taking the bentō box lunches
that were always available in the theatre. I also remember that within four or five
years it became customary for me to do this. The box lunch was garnished with
gratifyingly delicious nishime (dry vegetables cooked almost to dryness in soy sauce
and water) and many people bought them to take as souvenirs. Getting in a rickshaw
to go home the packed box lunch was put on my knees and the dipping sauce in
which the nishime was soaked often soiled my kimono and other clothing in sauce.
Later on the appointed day when we were driven around we would, as a matter of
course, place an order for sweets with an appetiser, bentō lunch, sushi, an evening
meal, and jelly desert. This wasn’t deemed extravagant and was a customary
expense. Because of this it increasingly became the custom for the spectators in the
doma dirt floor boxes and the sajiki galleries who couldn’t but help themselves to
order from this menu. Also I still remember when I was five years older, in Meiji 14
(1881) that in that period “kabesu”, consisting of very tasty pastries, bentō, sushi and
three courses, became popular. Of course since then customers haven’t been thrifty.
The majority of people usually adopt the principle of “Hana Yori Dango” (flowers
rather than dumplings – people are interested in the practical rather than the
aesthetic). One could see on entering the theatre that for the performances the idea
for this service was a success, though unusually, from when the service started
being thrifty, it wasn’t intended to be. That was then, though gradually the audience
became thriftier. As it turned out there were other things that were related to this
which were popular with the Audience Association and their friends. With pastries,
bentō and sushi available hunger pangs had to be tamed and food to be taken home
should not be eaten. As a result buying food to take home to eat was an economic
principle that was extensively and typically practised. The truth is that doing this at
home instead was the thing to do. For the audience in those older times the theatre
merged its business with the restaurant. Certainly no one would be misguided
enough to do any differently as a result, and though those old customs remained
while I was growing up they were seldom for the likes of me. One expression that
was often heard was “kabesu” which I kind of felt greedy to be served with but

22
unhappy at the unpleasant feeling of temptation that it brought on. It was the sort of
thing that in those long ago olden days I dreamt about. Today delicious food in the
theatre restaurants has become something considered by people as trendy. This
was certainly the truth for this misguided fellow.

Anyway for me this was my first time that I was amongst the audience at the
Shintomiza Theatre and here I end the account of my impressions of that day and
evening. It was around about then when, with favourable recommendations, the
foreigners’ stage curtain was bestowed that Morita Kan’ya wrote a letter which is
here published (on the left). Though the original was of course written in English the
Japanese’s translation is also shown.

…

I am writing this letter to say that, as a consequence of the rebuild, I would like to
extend an honourable invitation to you two young foreign residents in Tōkyō to the
occasion of the opening of the Shintomiza on 7th June 1879 and, along with my
fellow countrymen, to offer you our hospitality at an august speech welcoming you as
an expression of appreciation. Furthermore, as regards to the matter in question, I
will measure the time until your kind response to this request. Once it has been
presented I will, on receiving the gift of this superb curtain, be hanging it to serve in a
place of honour. I trust that this will be to our mutual satisfaction…

On a separate note this curtain, the appearance of which more than meets
expectations, will encourage those whose names will need to appear on the
certificate of the impending gift to agree. On this the appeal of this proposal will be
supported.
Yours sincerely
3rd February 1879
In Tōkyō
ASAP – Hospitality
Heinrich Von Siebold
Thomas McClatchie

The head of the Tōkyō Shintomiza, Morita Kan’ya the younger

Heinrich Von Seibold

23
Among those three men, so I heard, the last named Mr. McClatchie, with the
Legation of Great Britain and a zealous theatregoer, gave the most assistance. At
the time McClatchie apparently said to my father…

“I am coming to Japan to attend the upcoming occasion. I respectfully advise caution
as it may be dangerous to be associated with me and my friends. In Japan people
like the so called rōnin with their katana swords have long been in armed factions.
Foreigners seen by them are immediately killed. I am pleased to be able to travel in
Japan about which my mother has stopped crying. Coming to watch it’s not my
intention to be beheaded by rōnin. The theatre is very pretty and we will be watching
a beautiful play. It’s so pleasant don’t you agree? I respectfully ask that I be provided
with the details to be written and sent to me care of my friend the mother of Great
Britain (Queen Victoria)”

Attack on the Legation of Great Britain. Illustrated London News, October 12, 1861

The body of the English merchant Charles Lennox Richardson after he was killed by the bodyguard of the Satsuma Daimyō
Shimazu Hisamatsu in the Namamugi Incident in 1862

About this stage curtain and having received this message Morita Kan’ya’s reply was
sent…

---

I read your gracious letter in response to all the invitations sent, for which I would like
to thank you for confirming that you will be a guest on the said occasion in June.
Such a magnificent set of stage curtains that you have so kindly and honourably
given I received with humble thanks. As for the matter in question, the occasion of
this inauguration, it will be my honour to organise this to the best of my ability, the
better the honour for future generations. After this the illustrations will be seen in
Ōsaka where all the separate designs will be displayed. With all due respect to you
my three noble friends you will then be received with appropriate speeches of thanks
and honour. I will measure the time until your response to the precious article with
the family crest which will be honoured in the said theatre.

24
Respectfully
Yours sincerely,

4th February
Morita Kan’ya

The content of a letter that was written by someone in response to the receipt of the
foreigners’ stage curtain remains unknown. For posterity it received a prestigious
appearance and thanks were given welcoming it in suitably flowery language. The
memory of those people in those days is vividly recalled and more will come to light,
won’t it?

25
Part 4 Kabuki Star Portrait and Sugoroku (Dice Game)

Crossroads at Ten Bells on a Frosty Night (Shimoyo no Kane Jūji no Tsujiura by
Kawatake Mokuami) – Picture Book of Plays – Picture Shop – Feelings on the Early
Arrival of Spring – Wearing the Rokusa Hairstyle

As I’ve already mentioned there were reasons for my first, unfavourable, impressions
on meeting the actor named above. So, as I’ve said, not a very nice actor and no
matter how much I tried to understand it that person wasn’t very good company in
that situation though it was only me that felt that way. Though regarding Danjūrō with
various feelings of animosity those feelings were helped through a process of careful
consideration. Anyway, with further experience I increasingly and pleasingly came to
like that actor. Sada san’s rehearsal of a farce in the role of an Oo-Yakko (Note: big
servant, referring to Banzuin Chōbei) was comparatively interesting. From a
historical perspective the people who had a skilful understanding were originally the
Kabuki Gidayū musicians. What’s more many relatively unknown actors
misunderstood somewhat the performance of a play and weren’t in the least bit
interesting. From my perspective, since then I have, along with the rest of the
audience, pretty much successfully moved on. From home others went together to
see the performances whilst I always had to house sit. As a consequence of this
precedent I looked forward to receiving a souvenir box-lunch and appetisers.

That next year, in June (1880), “Crossroads at Ten Bells on a Frosty Night”
(Shimoyo no Kane Jūji no Tsujiura) was performed as the second act at the
Shintomiza Theatre. Kawatake Shinshichi II’s (Note: aka Kawatake Mokuami)
dramatization of the five act domestic drama (sewamono) was serialised in six parts
entitled…

…though it wasn’t the script that was published or the details of the play etc. but the
storyline of the play that was described. As a result of being newly serialised in its

26
entirety and published in the first edition of the Japanese newspaper “Kabuki News”
it was pleasurably and popularly received. I had to make do with borrowing the bath
house master’s copy that was in the public bath house attendant’s booth. The bath
house master was the son of a hatamoto. Like many others at the time I would make
a nuisance of myself going every day to the Kutoba public bathhouse in Kōjimachi
Yonchōme and sitting in the attendant’s booth.

The bath house master was a mild mannered man with an agreeable personality,
which he should have been given his background and birth. I was in the attendant’s
booth because I was always reading old picture book’s (kusazōshi) that he took back
and forth from his home to lend me. He was the master bath house manager on loan
from another place of his that was rented out. As I recall he helped me out with all
those picture books from olden days. Also the bath house master kindly loaned me
the original text of “Bells on a Frosty Night” (Shimoyo Kane) which I then started
reading. I occasionally started to get books of plays from the bath house master but
then stopped as I didn’t like them very much. I said I was interested in looking at and
reading the main parts and anyway, even though I wasn’t that interested, borrowed
them to read and look at them when they arrived. Though not understanding very
much, that certainly changed with watching interesting plays at the theatre. After
that I became more interested in, and liked to borrow, a variety of picture books
which I read and became absorbed in.

Here are listed some of the various picture book titles. New plays were written in the
better quality style of a picture series novel in two and three part volumes bound in
Japanese paper. Each sheet was illustrated. The front covers were illustrated all
over with pictures of actors’ portraits. Among many authors were Takeda Kōrai and
Ryūttei Senka. Among the artists widely remembered was Ochiai Yoshiiku.
Generally the cost for a two volume picture book series was five sen which
nowadays is considered unusually cheap. At the time they seemed to be of a
remarkable quality. My reading list included, amongst others, the picture books…

‘Pine’s Glory and Sacred Virtue in Chiyoda’ (Matsu no Sakae Chiyoda no Shintoku),

Ichikawa Danjūrō IX in the role of Tsukiyama Gozen in the play Matsu no Sakae Chiyoda no Shintoku
at the Shintomiza 6th month of Meiji 11 (June 1878)
http://yajifun.tumblr.com/post/15443061151/album-of-42-carte-de-visite-photographs-of-kabuki

‘The Appearance of the New Yukata Colours in Ancient Times’ (Kodaigata Shinzome
Yukata)

…besides which I read more like these in novel format judging them as interesting as
the novel written as the script ‘Bells on a Frosty Night’ (Shimoyo Kane). But then I
deliberated on a variety of others which I didn’t know about which were suggested by
my father, older sister and other acquaintances. Anyway the manager of the public
bath house attendant’s booth started giving me scripts of plays. Two or three years
later it was rumoured that the bath house master was accepted as the son-in-law of
a Government official. I don’t know what happened afterwards.

As well as the picture books of plays the bath house master also lent me old picture
books of the Edo period. Along with all of these I also borrowed two or three kinds of
other picture books which were brought to the bath house by guests which the bath
house master then lent me, the more there were the more I borrowed. In other words
the bath house master acted as a go between with picture books being shared
around when they arrived. I greatly approved of the material contained in the picture
books I was given. Among them was the picture book called ‘A Romantic Story of
Western Japan: Evening Shinto Dancing and Music’ (Saikoku Kidan Tsuki no Yo
Kagura’) written by the author Goryutei Tokusho in which in one scene Lady
Tamamushi of the Heike (Taira) Court rode on a crab. That image has stayed in my
mind because in later years I developed the play ‘The Heike Crabs’ (Heikegani).

When I was young I was pretty rowdy and also at the same time very melancholy.
Though caused by something or other, in spite of hiding in a child’s gloomy retreat it
was from that place I developed a tendency to read. From the bath house master I
loaned picture books amongst which ghost articles were a good read. I badgered my
third uncle when he returned from overseas for ghost stories from the West and
received and read many ghost plays. My uncle would tell me the story about the
ghost of a king whose son would frequently meet and speak with him. Later on I
believed that the former novel ‘Windsor Castle’ by William Harrison Ainsworth was
very much like ‘Hamlet’. In that way my childish head was filled with ghost stories. In
October of Meiji 17 (1884) Onoe Kikugorō V performed in ‘Yotsuya Kaidan’ at the
Ichimuraza Theatre. In relation to this I begged my mother’s approval to take me to
the year-end performance. This was not a play for children so of course I was made
to house sit.

In those days I was delighted when the picture book shop put up their display, a
practise which has completely ended. As retail shops go the picture book shops’
class of books that they sold were what I would consider novels, and they also sold
jōruri practice books. What’s more, the picture book style was predominant where
the stores sold single picture sheets and double sheet fold outs and also three sheet
nishiki-e fold out colour prints. The shops were also full up with children’s toy

28
pictures and coloured paper. Toy pictures and coloured paper were eight rin (one rin
equals one thousandth of a yen, or one tenth of a sen) a sheet, an acceptably small
amount of money. Two sheet nishiki-e fold out colour prints were five sen per set.
Pictures of warriors and erotic scenes could be purchased for seven or eight sen, or
perhaps even ten sen as well as newspaper articles on seasonal city events. There
were various things on offer. Also inside there were still splendid printed nishiki-e
colour prints showing pictures of plays. Every Kabuki Theatre’s plays always
succeeded when two or three kinds of two and three sheet fold outs were published.
The foremost artist for these was Toyohara Kunichika followed by Baidō Kunimasa,
Yōshū Chikanobu, and so on. The nishiki-e colour prints of the remaining artist
Yoshiiku weren’t produced as part of a portrait sitting service.

Utagawa Yoshiiku

The nishiki-e colour prints skilfully reproduced famous people. They couldn’t have
been any more beautiful. There was the opportunity to view every theatre’s new
Kabuki plays’ pictures where they were lined up at the picture book shop. Before this
the choice had been flowers or autumn leaves. Spellbound we children couldn’t help
but be stopped in our tracks. Although today’s picture postcard shops do something
similar, the method of producing pictures rather than the photographs in the books
meant that people were fascinated by the exceptionally gorgeous colours.

Gentle spring rain,
paper umbrellas,
not much to see at the picture shop…
…hototogisu (Note: cuckoo - an allegorical reference to the coming of
summer)

I can’t imagine the attention of today’s youth being drawn to something like this for
longer than ten minutes. As the year end drew to a close the picture book shops
stocked various sugoroku board games though in insufficient numbers. There were
also numerous types of sugoroku like portable sugoroku, warrior sugoroku and
teaching sugoroku. Of course there were coloured Kabuki sugoroku products in
various sizes and colours, and the requisite large size (ōban) and medium sized
(chūban) portraits all bound together. Kabuki sugoroku were about ten sen or more.
First class were twelve, thirteen and fifteen sen. In those days thirteen and fifteen
sen products were considered high priced. Generally in those days a single picture
book novel in two volumes would be five sen. I remember that a thirteen sen or more
sugoroku was a product often up for sale. Unlike today many year-end and new
29
years’ gifts were karuta card games and sugoroku board games, I guess I knew the
demand that I was aware of was due to the festive season.

Anyway the picture shops were decorated with Kabuki sugoroku at year end. At year
end, en mass, a variety of gifts were put together for the public on plays which were
loved by ardent fans and the picture book shops always put out the best sugoroku
for viewing. Wasn’t it natural that at that time pictures which were evocative and
which were called “Spring Will Come Soon” (Haruchikashi) were plentiful? In
comparison with then, today there is a sense that picture postcard shops are spotted
only very occasionally. In those days sugoroku started to disappear whilst Kabuki
associated Karuta card games became plentiful. It’s only Hagoita battledores that
haven’t gone out of fashion though in the olden days they were only a third more
popular.

Geisha holding a battledore

Of the articles on display in the Hagoita battledore shops the number of important
items laid out, though reduced, were still there. Skilfully drawn Oshie raised cloth
picture portraits as well as small articles of cloth seemed to start gradually
disappearing. As it’s only me talking about these things, and given the degree that
regular criticisms are made by older people about others, it would be best to leave
the rest for later.

30
Throughout the summer and autumn of Meiji 14 (1881) fashionable hairstyles were
being worn such as the so called “Rokusa Gake” and “O-Sono Gushi” especially
Rokusa Gake which was splendidly popular and which spread throughout Tōkyō. On
stage at the July performances at the Shintomiza Theatre Rokusa appeared in the
performance of a rewritten ‘cropped hair play’ (zangirimono) ‘The Appearance of the
New Yukata Colours of Ancient Times’ (Kodaigata Shinzome Yukata). Onoe
Kikugorō V appeared as the carpenter Rokusaburō alongside Iwai Hanshirō VIII as
O-En, the daughter of the Fukushimaya shop.

Onoe Kikugorō V in the role of Daiku Rokusaburō, in the play ‘Kodaigata Shinzone Yukata’
at the Shintomi-za, 6th month of Meiji 14 (June 1881)
http://yajifun.tumblr.com/post/15443061151/album-of-42-carte-de-visite-photographs-of-kabuki

Iwai Hanshirō VIII

Because of his fame he popularised the wearing of various Rokusa hairstyles which
imitated carpenter’s wood shavings. It’s not understood why but, as a consequence,
in those times for some reason or other hairstyles similar to wood shavings appeared
to look cool. An excessively worn hairstyle the hair of Tōkyō’s young women was
crowned as though with Rokusa wood shavings. The fashion gradually spread out of
Shitamachi arriving at Yamanote where it was worn by all the neighbourhood girls.
Of course, later on, fashions associated with other actors started and thankfully the
influence of his Rokusa Gake hairstyle didn’t seem to have much substance. As far
as I am able to recall various fashions arising from Kabuki came to an end. Now, in
the prime of his life it’s Nakamura Utaemon V who is more the bringer of good luck
with kushi kanzashi hair pin combs with the ura ume crest pattern starting to become
surprisingly fashionable.

31
Narikomoya ura ume crest

Similarly, it didn’t appear that such Kabuki associated trend setting was that widely
fashionable. On this subject, adopting the look of popular actors’ Edo period
characters became firmly established about five years after Meiji 14 (1881).

Fashions similar to the “Rokasa Gake” hairstyles were unusual. In those days
watching plays was just one of a variety of frivolous things that people were doing.
There didn’t seem to be much consistency or direction to the shows though during
that period the number of fans of the Shintomiza Theatre increased even though in
one year there were barely as many as five or six performance runs. Similarly in one
year the Saruwaka Theatre, Nakamuraza Theatre, Harukiza Theatre and the others
put on no more than three or four performance runs. As a consequence performance
runs included a wide range of plays because of which people were for the time being
careful about which establishment they would gather in. The way things are today
there are a similar number of theatres and likewise there’s not much choice of
holiday performance runs. Later on opinion changed and Kabuki plays became more
popular yet there was no increase in the number of events or places in which they
could take place. Shortly afterwards rumours began to circulate. There was no
consistency and as a result people became agitated and worried and, though not
widespread, the rumours were often heard. Though there was an increase in the
number and variety of interesting Kabuki performance runs they were unpredictable.
Though I was around at the time I can’t remember entirely what they were but those
later changes were made quickly. It was hoped that in the long term performances
overseas would be possible though the in the circumstances that would be
exceptional. Circumstances at the time meant that every month a selection of
forthcoming programmes would be similar. The focus of both the theatres and the
audiences were, unsurprisingly, directionless though to begin with this certainly
wasn’t the case. Only the classical routine techniques employed by Kabuki Gidayū
musicians in olden times were deemed worthy. At the time the number and
frequency of performance runs were much fewer than might have been expected.
Then, when there was more flexibility, authors and actors took more holidays.
Audiences adopted a somewhat different way of paying attention to events than
before by becoming keener on watching out for more of the opening events. But then
the profitable circumstances of today’s opening events are as a result of the
reliability of their fixed dates. Likewise, regulated by local conditions, these
circumstances are still in play with advanced notice as to which day the opening
event is taking place seldom modified. Instead back then the dates were generally
changed so that for example the opening events scheduled for the second day of the
month were at the time generally advertised and increasingly publicly promoted
would then be unreasonably postponed to the third, then the fifth and then the tenth
day of the month. This became increasingly extreme with the event being postponed
to half way through the month and then one month later with the event eventually
fizzling out and being closed. In many cases these circumstances meant that the
scheduled opening days were unreliable. Successful opening events did also
happen though the programme of Kabuki plays being advertised ended up being
completely changed as well. Considering this now there were far too many
unreasonable people adopting the same way of doing things.

33
Talking about this a bit more, I took an ardent interest in keeping an eye on those
situations. In what way were theatre professionals’ by no means any more foolish
than other people? Everything appeared to be in a desperate frenzy. The theatre
scene fully relied on expected finances and each time a performance run took place
it was operating using funds raised from high interest rate borrowing. From
everywhere funds were being excessively borrowed. Somehow or other progress
looked like it was being made and on opening days the theatres were open for
business though all the arrangements that had to be made in relation to this were
unpleasant. As a consequence opening days became increasingly postponed.
Expected funds weren’t raised and eventually events were indefinitely postponed, a
situation that became increasingly familiar. Today it’s everyone’s guess as to what
seems to have been the truth about those miserable troubles. Historically, to start
with the situation was that though the contracted regular performance runs were paid
for they were unable to make a profit. Even though this was happening in Edo other
provinces remained unaffected. Of course the insiders of Kabuki performance runs
increasingly struck it rich with their enormous profits, though they did not set a good
example and as a consequence of the situation substantial profits were uncommon.
The distressing financial situation of the theatre owner managers (zamoto) amongst
others meant that they were advised to be careful.

In charting this situation, which still of course continued to develop during the Meiji
period, once performances were sold out within three or four days people were able
to clarify their opinions coherently but when the newspapers wrote about the
circumstances they distorted the situation in pretentiously exaggerated ways. In
considering the period from that point on some incorrect assertions increasingly
began to appear. This tells me one essential thing, that up till Meiji 17 (1884) when I
was about eight year’s old, the situation that was developing for the theatres was
that they were rarely sold out. If it was true that they were selling seventy to eighty
percent capacity then perhaps that would have been splendid. I thought that they
were actually selling at fifty to sixty percent capacity. At the Nakamuraza theatre it
was about sixty percent for the performances of the troupe of Kataoka Gadō III and
Ichikawa Gonjūrō (Note: Gonjūrō served three years in prison for an affair with the
Geisha Yoarashi Okinu when he was called Arashi Rikaku III which resulted in the
murder of her patron, Kobayashi Kinpei). An example being that for the staging of
one particular play there was only one person in the audience in the doma dirt floor
box. A play in which Ichikawa Shinjūrō III appeared had more of an audience with
thirty six people, not surprising since they were all attending a large theatre in the
centre of Tōkyō. Though these are the worst examples involving these two people it
wasn’t unusual for there to be doma dirt floor boxes on at least two or three sides of
the stage. I’m giving the same examples which are often used to demonstrate this.

In those days amongst the show business professionals that I’m talking about the
theatre owners became increasingly famous. Very occasionally I managed to make
do with what money I had for each performance. Usually I depended on what money
other people would lend me. Consequently, one way or another, I managed to
continue attending performances. Casts of actors were allowed to begin working in
Kabuki plays, as I witnessed, with support from financial backers (the name Kinkata
was mentioned). Relying on agreements like this was beneficial unless an opening
event wasn’t worth considering. For some financiers funding performance runs there
was some dissatisfaction with some of the actors and the Kabuki plays. When it was

34
like that, when in those circumstances money was sent, it was essential for the
person in charge of the situation to make whatever changes were necessary. A
number of those actors would, where possible, do this although on the whole the
instances where changes were made tended not to happen. In some or perhaps in
all of the cases where changes were unavoidable they were made. The professional
Kabuki performers were in uproar with their financiers. For the first time profits were
realised and this time as a result of the special kind of plays that were performed
which emerged out of the turmoil affecting Kabuki. One play, Shiranami, was a hit
though this had more to do with it having been requested from the playwright Dorobō
(Note: aka Kawatake Mokuami) for the year end performance run. If that request and
choice had not been agreed to funding would not have been forthcoming. That the
plays were changed helped professionals from the Kabuki world to play more roles.
In those instances there might but be only one financier, though it was better when
two or three smaller financiers combined forces and as a consequence were able to
consider more (roles) on each occasion. Just before the opening event of each
Kabuki performance run was announced there were various revisions to the
programme. In this sort of situation the most immediate consequence was that it
indirectly made the theatre professionals unhappy, a situation which most certainly
came about as a result of these circumstances.

In this way opportunities were created but in those days and on that basis there was
some uncertainty about every theatre’s opening event. On the same basis Kabuki
plays were often being changed, a situation which was unavoidable for theatre
professionals which in turn again created increasingly difficult circumstances where,
even though prone to making a loss, the profuse number of plays made available
continued for a long time until through intervention today’s period of prosperity was
reached. Similar men in this respect in the world of the theatre were Morita Kan’ya
and Nakamura Zenshirō who from the Meiji period onwards rendered distinguished
service and didn’t lose their auspicious reputation, and Danjūrō and Kikugorō
became much more famous. On a daily basis theatre professionals lost out if they
were given the worst of plays and were increasingly unable to work. It is said that
during that time theatre management was extremely difficult. For those men to
achieve anything was a hard struggle and for that much honour was paid to them
and in our theatre’s history deserves a special mention which I would always expect.
The politics of debt and theatre debt were held in contempt by the public, one reason
why they should not be ignored. In those days it was asked why plays should be
profitable. The reasons were clear and simple. After all, given that the extent to
which people watched plays was limited and audiences small, there wasn’t much
profit. Entrance fees were also cheap. Suddenly entrance fees rose in price taking
the public by surprise. In June Meiji 15 (1882) the actors Danjūrō, Kikugorō, Sadanji
of course and others appeared at the Shintomiza Theatre’s performance run (as a
result of the fashionable and famous ceremonial events and as a consequence of
the Saruwakaza Theatre’s fame. By the time of its opening event the zamoto
manager-owner Morita Kan’ya had run into debt). Those working with Nakamura
Shikan IV’s people along with Suketakaya Takasuke IV went to Ōsaka and were
followed by Ichikawa Udanji I, Arashi Rikan IV and others. As might be expected as
there were some rumours about a large actors troupe the entrance fees, as a result,
naturally became more expensive. As a consequence one sajiki gallery room was
four yen fifteen sen. Of course if five people could be packed in the cost wasn’t too
much, a minimal ninety sen. It was increasingly remarked that ninety sen was

35
ridiculously expensive and a big problem when compared to ten. What’s more for a
while afterwards the cost for a sajiki gallery room remained four yen fifty sen, a
takadoma dirt floor box three yen fifty sen, and a hiradoma box of seats in front of
the stage two yen fifty sen. Additionally the price for one cushion started at fifty sen.
However the Shintomiza Theatre stood apart from the others as a theatre of lower
rank with a hiradoma box of seats in front of the stage seating five people being
priced at one yen, and sixty sen for seating seven though the usual price was about
eighty sen.

As usual my family also went to the see the actors’ prize show and in spite of it being
a Sunday I went as well. Consequently the script and plot of the play ‘Bell on a
Frosty Night’ (Shimoyo Kane) was something I certainly liked to read and, in spite of
myself, it was apparent that I was motivated to eventually go and see the play. When
I was at home alone house sitting I would do the same though I would be given a
souvenir lunch box and small box stuffed with appetisers and fun would be had
listening to my mother and older sister’s conversation about the plays.

As a result I would listen in to my mother and older sister’s ‘souvenir’ conversations
on one occasion about the play Takeda Shingen with Danjūrō’s Uesugi (Nagao)
Kenshin, Kikugorō’s Yamamoto Kansuke, Sadanji’s Oni (Demon) Kojima Yatarō and
about the Banners of Ōkura (Hatamochi Ōkura – probably Ichijo Ōkura Monogatari).

What’s more all the grandest of people appeared. They later performed the play
‘Eastern Brocade Banner of the Battle of Kawanakajima’ (Kawanakajima azuma
nishiki-e) at every theatre. Now, more than ever, when I hear about this Kabuki play I
can’t help thinking about it and the memories I have of my younger days. Then I was
a high spirited eleven year old attending primary school and there were two young
maids who looked after the house really well. They were special companions so I
didn’t feel lonely. I clearly remember one hot day at the end of June when I was in
the garden at home whiling away the time playing make-believe. The edge of the
lattice fence was fringed with many red lilies which made me smile. I was running
after the horseflies trying to drive them away when I ran into the area of bamboo
chips where those flowers were crushing them completely. Next door was where our
neighbour, a Nagauta music master, lived where on that Sunday shamisen music
practice could be heard. I was saying that for the following month’s Tanabata
Festival we might write something on some coloured paper and so that afternoon the
maids practised very hard with their writing brushes. We also went fishing and that
afternoon I also studied, reading the words in my textbook. The memories of those
events appear suddenly, presenting themselves to me and, as a consequence, as I
write these words I feel rather moved.

On that occasion, by the way, Danjūrō’s younger brother Ichikawa Shinnosuke IV
returned from Ōsaka as he was succeeding to the name of Ichikawa Ebizō VIII.
Whilst appearing as the hunter Satsuo in the play ‘Kawanakajima’ with Danjūrō and
Kikugorō the Kōjō ceremony took place. Then as a bandit Ebizō appeared from the
Sanjin Shrine, with a roll of cloth as a prop, performing a mie pose in a storm.
Unfortunately Ebizō’s health wasn’t very good and he did not appear on stage much
more, dying four or five years later (in the winter of Meiji 19 (1886) as I recall) and
departing this world. At the time of the funeral his older brother Danjūrō, in mourning,
turned to my father (Okamoto Keinosuke) and said, “My younger brother has left his

36
actor’s job before his time. I would be pleased to be back with him and at his side for
much longer. Being a Kabuki play author I had a fond relationship with him”. Then
again to whatever degree he loved his younger brother it should be pointed out that
they were both arrogant. Conversely however, as much as he was yearning for his
brother, in the circumstances as a modern playwright I guess with his arrogance he
was prepared for that undertaking. Afterwards, hearing Danjūrō’s speech expressed
with modesty my animosity towards him honestly faded even though I have talked,
though not rudely or impolitely, about “throwing stuff into the author’s room from
outside” and so on. The next opening event for Kawanakajima was in November
when the Kabuki plays being performed afterwards were ‘The Kuroda Incident’
(Kuroda Sodo) and ‘The Arrowhead’ (Ya no Ne Goro) and ‘The Korea Incident’
(Chōsen Jiken).

Ichikawa Danjūrō IX in the role of Soga no Goro Tokimune in the play 'Yanone'
at the Shintomi-za, 11th month of Meiji 15 (November 1882)
http://yajifun.tumblr.com/post/15443061151/album-of-42-carte-de-visite-photographs-of-kabuki

Though I didn’t go, my family all went to see the performances. In those days my
family subscribed to the newspapers “Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun” and “Ukiyo
Shimbun”. Newspapers generally had a bad reputation. In contrast to the others
“Ukiyo Shimbun“ criticised the confusing competition between ‘The Kuroda Incident’
(Kuroda Sōdō) and Udanji’s Asakawa Mondō and when the latter’s dance play
flopped after appearing at twenty-five theatres it was ridiculed and disparaged.
Udanji’s fans took a position of animosity towards the critic (and newspaper editor
and poison woman fiction writer) Mr. Itō Kyōtō who was, so said the report that I saw,
attacked and injured by hoodlums. Enduring accusations of foolishness and being
held up as a laughing stock occurred right from the start though the Edokko, the true
sons of Edo, weren’t much involved in perpetrating the insults. Anyway it would
seem that Udanji’s judgement really wasn’t very good. As for me I didn’t read the
other newspapers’ drama criticism on any more than one occasion. My family
gossiped about this at home which is where I first saw and read the article for the
first time. Similarly I was interested in a variety of other things though later on I
wanted to read every bit of drama criticism I could. I would influence the master of
the attendant’s booth at the public bath house into letting me read play scripts as
well as Mr. Itō Kyōtō’s “Ukiyo Shimbun” article. For me these two peoples’ fame and
reputation are now much longer remembered so those articles would not have had
any substance.

How long was it after the (1923) earthquake disaster that performance advertising
posters (banzuke) were discontinued? The only ones still being issued are those
from the Teigeki Imperial Theatre. As an established business, banzuke were, unlike
their predecessors, a small and unique product. After the Edo period when they were
extensively used they lingered on but have since begun to disappear. Since the Edo
period practically nothing much remains of their special use. Some sections, written
using Kanteiryū Kabuki calligraphy, are records containing much valuable
information. As a time-honoured tradition they were often considered yet another
“throwaway” item. For example, though the details of the head of an acting troupe,
the zagashira, and the first and second class acting roles for each act were shown,
with other assigned second and third class roles added, it was a haphazard
manufacturing process resulting in incorrectly stated facts about those roles that had
been assigned. Since there was probably some familiarity with the Kabuki and Shin
Kabuki plays everyone knew what the actual assigned roles were for a particular
performance. It wasn’t easy for the manufacturer to predict those that should be
listed on the banzuke and people were able to distinguish between the incorrect
roles that were listed and those that were to be performed. For example, amongst
these the roles of Katō Kiyomasa and the landlord Chōbei were listed, but it was
confusing as it wasn’t made implicit whether they were expected to appear on stage.
The troupe leader (zagashira) could do nothing but complain about the supposed
placing on the banzuke of the high ranking actors (nakajiku), the young popular
actors (kakidashi), the leading onnagata female role actors (tateoyama), and the
special actors (iori), and all the others, the authenticity of which was then in question
and which was extremely embarrassing.

Shintomiza Tsuji banzuke May - June 1891 (translator’s collection)

This happened because it was a so called convenient custom. The banzuke of old,
which have all but disappeared, listed all the acts in each play as well as the actors.
The young popular actors (kakidashi), high ranking actors (nakajiku), the leading
onnagata female role actors (tateoyama), and theatre troupe leader (zagashira) all

38
got wind of this. As a consequence the positions of the actors were all arranged
while one person was responsible for writing them all down and putting on a list all
that day’s assigned roles for each scene, for the entire production if possible.
Though increasingly it would only be the principal actors and their roles in the plays
which were published on the programme posters, the correct listings seldom
materialized. However, there is benefit to be had from those which have been
conserved as, in reality, the roles which were discarded weren’t named when the
banzuke were prepared for publication. This was when more people playing third or
fourth class roles might be shown. After the Meiji era these production associated
customs were continued when the banzuke were printed for the inauguration of the
new Kabukiza Theatre in November of Meiji 22 (1889) though they had been
improved by showing each act and the characters in them.

Kabukiza Theatre

As it was no longer impractical for them to be regarded as disposable the banzuke
naturally gradually developed further and as a result their format became
established. As is customary, other theatres gradually followed suit with the changes
made to the banzuke of older times continuing during the thirty years that remained
until the (1923) earthquake disaster arrived. Then, after the earthquake disaster
event, they were discontinued. Today they are made with cheap Western paper and
inferior printing techniques and their cheap looking style is easily appreciated.
Improvement is doubtful, decline has accelerated, use of foreign methods has
increased and anyway banzuke have completely changed.

Shintomiza Tsuji banzuke January 1899 (translator’s collection)

Well, a whole (two volume) book arrived. The second part was both informative and
annoying. We had hoped that it would show the people who grew up in old Tōkyō.

39
Unsurprisingly, on looking at it there were no articles on the banzuke of old. There
were unremarkable articles like the one about the first class banzuke at the Kabukiza
Theatre, ’Inside very inferior Japanese paper had increasingly been used and I
turned my nose up, affected by the various smells caused by the wood block
printing. Anyway, banzuke did occasionally smell. These plays were undoubtedly a
big hit, all the more so for being more traditional. Each theatregoer sniffed with
pleasure the smell of the ink given off by modern banzuke’. Like this ridiculous article
young people now don’t have any imagination. Inside Shikitei Sanba's ‘Critique of
Theatre Goers’ (Kyakusha Hyōbanki) the character of a scarf merchant appears in
front of a charcoal brazier sunk into the floor (kotatsu).

Kyakusha Hyōbanki, Waseda University

Looking at the book there was a detailed illustration of the banzuke for Spring Kabuki
plays which it would be impossible here to explain in detail.

Kyakusha Hyōbanki, Waseda University

At the end of the year I received the banzuke for the Spring plays. Would the usual
plays be changed from the old to the new? Would the roles be changed for the old to

40
the new? My heartfelt guesses were many and I imagined that it would all happen.
As I recall the coming of Spring was anticipated with enjoyment, a carefree feeling
for which I often hoped. Of course, today people prove to be much the same and no
smarter than they were during the Edo Bunka-Bunsei period (1804-1830) and at
least the theatres’ banzuke have all left that age behind. All the same the settled and
carefree mood that people really feel is similar to what it was in those bygone days.
Also they aren’t always limited to old fashioned things. As a consequence, somehow
or other, a little artistic design was planned and revealed in the banzuke. Similarly,
the Kabuki theatres’ chief actors (nadai) assigned the roles, decided on the entrance
fees and opening hours and similarly clarified the cost of the restaurants’ sushi and
bentō box lunches in order to ascertain their profitability. Today it’s said that the
banzuke style looks cheap and are just about sufficiently utilitarian. Plays appear to
have a more carefree feeling about them whether or not there is going to be a festive
feel at the next show.

In experiencing the company of today’s audience they are somewhat noisy,
unsettled and unenthusiastic and are not thrilled with solemn plays but greatly enjoy
those with a brisk tempo. If the curtain falls halfway through the programme one can
witness a tendency for them to then enjoy smoking an early cigarette and going into
the restaurant unannounced to eat a meal. That said these days things happen fast
and if it’s busy then those things are anticipated. Whatever orders are made from
establishments near the theatre continue to be met quickly, the staff working in a
commotion to get things done. Our elderly companions in the audience at the theatre
today, familiar with this, observe what is going on. The need to get things finished
was often symbolised by the appearance of a very thin one sheet programme printed
with cheap ink.

Before continuing it must be said that since then the theatres never really managed
to complete what was required. As a consequence, in what was a good theatre going
family, we would wait for a while thinking that more of the work could be finished. I
am of the impression that the question for all the newspapers was how far into the
following month and on what dates the opening event would take place. That said
many of the occasional performance runs would similarly increasingly appear though
this was by no means restricted to the local theatres. Familiar with these the
enthusiastic young people at the theatre tea houses and all the theatre ushers would
be responsible for delivering and distributing banzuke. Those that were mailed would
be left on the porches so they wouldn’t need to go in, turning up in considerable
numbers at both the front and back doors. Early good wishes were mailed in both hot
and cold weather though increasingly, it was said, more seat reservation requests
went unfilled. This happened when there was a long wait for responses to
reservation requests. At the time there was gossip about both the Kabuki plays and
the actors and I heard about a number of such situations.

During my leisure time indoors I would invite everyone in and chat about such things
for thirty minutes or more. Of course celebratory gifts were given. Similarly
reservations would be made to go and watch the performances on a particular day
and at a particular time. Young people would make excellent guests to go with and
the wives of the tea house owners and others would also be carrying banzuke. In
this way young people from the Shintomiza Theatre’s tea house, Kikuoka, and the
Ichimuraza Theatre would be induced, with the investment of large sums of money,

41
to distribute banzuke. All summer long children would come into the garden through
the sliding gate while my father, his health fading, would chat with them. As I recall
there were about five of them. The young person from the Kikuoka tea house would
guide me into the neighbourhood picture shop where three page portraits could be
bought. At the time I had no understanding of what was being bought though the
articles I fetched for my father were certainly highly prized and reputable.

Similarly having got wind of this the people in charge were greatly troubled as it
would be pointless to incur even more expenditure on staging the forthcoming
performance programme. Subsequently an unstamped one sheet banzuke for that
day’s performance programme was received in the mail which retailed at two sen
though the person taking delivery wasn’t surprised at all. My family gathered
together and examined the banzuke. Our neighbours also sent some for us on loan.
Subsequently they were, as usual, filed away in order. Becoming a good dramatist I
undertook this task with these various cherished articles because they were so
highly prized. Ironically, to our advantage and to increase our knowledge, we still
need to undertake research into the early days of the Edo and Meiji theatre of the
Edo period using these banzuke. My family’s collection of banzuke from the early
Meiji period was considerable but as a result of the great (1923) earthquake they are
all now ashes.

In addition to banzuke there were also picture books (ehon). Ultimately banzuke
were modified and many were bound in small books which were made use of by the
theatres. Usually the finished banzuke pages were printed in inconveniently large
sizes. As a consequence they were generally distributed to customers in front of the
theatre tea house by the theatre ushers, something which is still done with tsuji
(corner) banzuke which are used to in advance advertising and which are hawked on
every local street corner, at every public bath house and at every Edo era barber
shop. The difference being that in this situation the banzuke that were received that
weren’t in picture books were more popular.

Picture books, produced using a special colour printing technique, contained pictures
of the actors in their Kabuki roles as well as the authors (sakusha), the narrators
(tayū) who recited the Gidayū musicians’ Jōruri, and the Nagauta troupes. Though it
wasn’t customary for the authors of Kabuki plays to have all their names printed one
of the two books (Shikitei Sanba's ‘Critique of Theatre Goers’) was signed in the
preface. This happened more and more with books of Kabuki plays, an example
being the picture book of ‘The Ghost Story of Yotsuya’ (Tōkaidō Yotsuya Kaidan),
though I didn’t know whose work the banzuke were. Looking at the last part of this
particular picture book revealed the joint signatures of the play’s author, Tsuruya
Nanboku IV, and others. With the arrival of ‘The Ghost of Yotsuya’ (Yotsuya Kaidan)
the head of the Playwrights’ Room (tatesakusha) deemed Tsuruya Nanboku’s work
worthy enough to be produced. As a consequence, with this sort of thing in mind,
existing banzuke usually were designed in a similar way and because of this picture
books still have these sort of features. Unless one proposes to really study and
evaluate banzuke and picture books it’s difficult to make a comparison.

The picture books continued to be produced in significant numbers from the Edo
through to the Meiji. When I was about six years old, in this narrative in Meiji 15
(1882), new versions of these products were published which regularly contained

42
simply written plots of Kabuki plays and coloured front cover portraits. Picture books
began to disappear and now their publication has come to an end. Additionally, it
became clear at one point that banzuke, picture books and scripts were for a short
while all on equal footing and then again for a short while there was a suspiciously
brief revival of picture books and scripts. The production of picture books then
declined and then clearly all that was left were the published scripts. Those which
still appear are somewhat changed in appearance because of today’s scripts.

Picture books had almost died out and were closely followed by banzuke. Since Edo
the vestiges that were still being published also disappeared. From here on in
researchers would consult scripts as part of a course of study or possibly might even
consult other similar resources such as the specialist Theatre Journals like “Kabuki
News“ (Kabuki Shinpō)…

“Kabuki News“ (Kabuki Shinpō)

“Entertainment Illustrated News Magazine” (Engei Gahō)…

“Entertainment Illustrated News Magazine” (Engei Gahō)

…and “Kabuki” alongside other press material. Those old picture books and banzuke
were the categories of reference material that were increasingly consulted and they
are now being collected and conserved, the intention being to leave them to
posterity.

It was the 3rd January Meiji 16 (1883). The day was a little overcast and cold. I had
returned from an alleyway with my printed cloth kite and was eating some cooked
rice for lunch – as we’re from an Edo period samurai family invited visitors would be
led in from the entrance hall and though they would usually be received by the
woman receptionist she was off duty. This custom was something that had stayed
with my family and as I was the one who almost always went to see who was visiting
when a voice called from the entrance hall this duty was left to me. Some visitors
had arrived with some expectedly large New Year’s gifts. I immediately dropped my
chopsticks and took the chance to see if I could go out with them. Typically, as
theatre people do, they were wearing matching haori over jackets when out and
about. They were visiting from the Tsukiji neighbourhood’s Naritaya Actors’ Guild
and I asked if my father if I could please visit there soon. As it was New Year father
went around some of the neighbours leaving me behind. I didn’t know what, if
anything, he’d say in reply so I had to wait for him to return home.

So I went instead with someone back to the alleyway with my kite. A fairly long
afternoon soon passed and just as the men were ready to start out on their walk I
heard my father come back having changed his clothes. I first went back to our
house but as it appeared that no one was aware of what, if anything, my father had
said about my going along with them they left without me. Afterwards I also heard
that just as soon as my father arrived they left straightaway for Tsukiji.

The place they went to wasn’t the headquarters of the Tsukiji’s Naritaya Actors’ Guild
lineage but somewhere else, Danjūrō’s home. Just after a busy and noisy New Year
what kind of business would warrant such a summons? My mother and sister were
chatting and the sun was setting when my father returned. Together with Danjūrō,
(the classical scholars) Konakamura Kiyonori and Kurokawa Mayori, and (the Tosa
School painter) Kawabe Mitate a proposal had been discussed considering forming a
group of people, including my father, which was to be called the “Antiquarian
Society” (Kyūko kai) the first meeting of which was held in Danjūrō’s home. The work
of the group was divided up amongst those attending the meeting. Anyway this was
an unexpected event but had been organised as a result of the January 3 rd end of
the New Year holiday. How that appropriately select group of people just so
happened to be in his (Danjūrō’s) home and had managed to arrive in that location at
the end of their walk was very puzzling.

How would Danjūrō go about publishing the particular ideas that their association
would produce? Those members who were going to prepare “Historical” (katsureki)
articles for publication would play advisory roles since they were well versed in and
enjoyed researching. I don’t remember much about the reputation of all those
members. In the beginning there were six, maybe seven, people and later on twelve,
three of whom advanced as a result of their accomplishments. The consequence for
them was the gratifying realization of Kawatake Mokuami’s work, the historical
drama “The Noble Second Genji Substitution” (Nidai Genji Homare no Migawari). It

44
seemed as though it would be best if the Antiquarian Society members submitted the
dramatized arrangement of the substitution by Fujiwara Nakamitsu* as their first plan
of action.

*Translator’s note: This is the story of Nakamitsu. His feudal lord, Manju, had
confided a reprobate son named Bijomaru to his care, in the hope that a samurai’s
control would prove more efficacious than a priest's but as Bijomaru continued to
"indulge in all sorts of wild sports, sometimes going so far as to kill innocent common
people" Nakamitsu was ordered to put him to death. Instead of doing so he
beheaded his own son Kojumaru and took the head to his master who, believing in
his fidelity, refused to inspect it. Years afterwards, when Bijomaru has become an
irreproachable priest he was restored to his father who forgave Nakamitsu for
disobeying him and rewarded his self-sacrifice with the gift of an adopted son and an
extensive tract of land. For Nakamitsu's act was voluntary and his son, eager to be
sacrificed on the altar of duty, welcomed death while Manju had not demanded such
cruel fidelity.
http://www.archive.org/stream/cu31924026424733/cu31924026424733_djvu.txt

What’s called Danjūrō’s historical category of drama (katsureki) was, without any
start-up problems, justifiably realised. He made profitable business investments in
himself since his appearance as Kusunoki Masashige in the performance of ‘New
Play Iwao no Kunisoki’ (Shinbutai Iwao no Kusunoki) at the Kawarazakiza Theatre in
Meiji 7 (1874) and had extensively increased his investments in Meiji 9 (1876) with
his appearance as Shigemori in the play ‘The Peony Tales of the Heike’ (Fūkigusa
Heike Monogatari) at the Nakamuraza Theatre, occasional investments about which
he was increasingly enthusiastic. The Antiquarian Society advisory members’ first
experimental historical drama (katsureki) theatre performance of Nakamitsu in ‘Nidai
Genji’ was something that became well-spoken of and its future assured it was
performed at the Shintomiza Theatre every April for the next seventeen years (until
1884). Looking back from today’s vantage point its style wasn’t improved by having a
longer script, or more stage and clothing props, or other more innovative props. In
those days it would have been pretty much a nearly unprecedented and unusual
thing to have tried to improve it like that, something which would have surprised
theatre goers.

What kind of thing was being done to Nakamitsu’s script? An explanation of the
aforementioned revision wasn’t forthcoming. It was pretty much still a dramatized
version of the “Chronicle of Mediaeval Times” (Zen Taiheki). It still used the same
traditional Kabuki Gidayū (chobo) musicians‘ jōruri chant with narimono musical
accompaniment, and the delivery of actors’ lines primarily used the seven five
syllable meter. These traditional forms didn’t change because of what was being
attempted. As it was called historical drama (katsureki) the idea was that as a
consequence care was taken with the dramatization over many years so as not to
diverge from historical fact. Because of this and in these circumstances the sort of
clothing used as a result also, as much as possible, conformed to tradition and in
any event the costumes that appeared did correspond to these various customs. But
the audience, familiar with the earlier version of the play, were certainly surprised. In
response to this there was a variety of public criticism in that the aforementioned
play was totally preposterous and one section of that period’s intelligentsia, those
with only superficial knowledge, spoke ill of it. If it is true that subsequently the

45
theatre was routinely criticised instead of being praised it ought not to have
happened. Since the aforementioned play was considered some sort of sacrilege to
the Edo audience in order for it to be accepted it was performed with resilience and
tenacity, even though it was derided by some.

The first play of the performance that I watched with my mother and older sister was
called ‘The Mirror of a Son of Fully Twenty Years’ (Man Nijūnen Musuko Kagami)
secured for the stage at an apt time it was a cropped hair play (zangirimono) which I
remember didn’t appear very interesting. The middle act was ‘Nakamitsu’ and by the
time of the second act I had completely lost interest. The surrounding audience were
also all bored, their expressions showing their exasperation. Today certain similar
plays are still seen though there is a little more so called “audience excitement”.
Though they watched in silence during the performance there were, as a matter of
course, the usual Ōmukō (kakegoe* shouting) experts standing amongst the
audience in the doma dirt floor boxes and the sajiki galleries. As it so happened this
was something which was helpful for Danjūrō’s main character and an aspect that
continued to helpfully improve and maintain focus in some peoples’ minds. That type
of audience motivation still seems to be the same. It hasn’t changed and as a
consequence I could see that the audience of that period largely understood what
was courteous and what was not.

*Translator’s note: Kakegoe - During the performance in traditional Kabuki Theatres
members of the audience, called Ōmukō (lit. playing to the gallery) show their
appreciation by calling out the guild names of the actors at pivotal moments, perhaps
when a pose is held, and is called kakegoe. It can dramatically increase the tension
or break it, sometimes as the performance makes a pivotal shift in rhythm or there is
a realization of something that till that point had been concealed. Apart from actors’
guild names such as ‘Naritaya!’ Another call might be ‘mattemashita!’ I’ve been
waiting for this, or if the actor is performing badly ‘daikon!’ (big radish). A general rule
of thumb is that the kakegoe callers occupy and call from the ‘cheap’ seats close to
the ceiling which reflects the voice or alternatively a balcony seat; the accepted
protocol is never to call from the stalls as it disturbs the audience in that area and
would be nokemono, the odd one out. Currently they have their own Ōmukō
committees, three in Tōkyō and three in the Kansai Region.

Of course it was customary during the Edo period for a lot of calling of the names of
the Naritaya Actors’ Guild as well as Takashimaya Actors’ Guild during
performances. However, with the exception of a small number of acts that took place
with unpleasant people in the audience, most calling was done in praise of the
performance. If by chance there are any of those sorts of people in the audience it
didn’t matter as that sort of shoddy calling was an acceptable part of the
development of the arts by and with the plebeian people (from the Shitamachi area
of Tōkyō). Though for those knowledgeable theatre insiders there was a sort of
natural courtesy. What sort of teaching will be handed down from father to child and
child to grandchild amongst the audience over the next hundred years? At open air
ritual Sumo bouts for local Shinto deities open air plays were watched with the same
idea. Those passing through the doors of Edo’s theatres unintentionally did the same
thing. Consequently those customs survived until the early years of the Meiji period
and have since been passed down from Edo to Tōkyō. Though there was a
purposeful increase in calling (more than there should have been) during history

46
plays (katsureki) it was largely considered an “unprecedented and unusual
occurrence” and whether or not this felt odd I am maybe too judgemental about the
potential for improvements in the otherwise comparatively calm behaviour of the
audience.

I understand that for a period of about twenty years, about ten years either side of
the last days of the Meiji to when the Taisho began (in 1912), the behaviour of
theatre audiences was pretty bad which was caused by the disappearance of most
of the trio of famous actors referred to as Dankikusa (Ichikawa Danjūrō IX and Onoe
Kikugorō V both died in 1903, and Ichikawa Sadanji I died in 1904). The natural
tendency for the audience* was to poke fun at the performance on stage,
uproariously jeering for about half a minute.

*Translator’s note: the lower rakandai and the upper yoshino were two level seating
areas on stage which faced outwards across the stage towards the main audience.
The seats were very cheap and the occupants usually very rowdy and it was even
know for fights to break out in this area

It wasn’t long, from just before the Russo-Japanese War (Nichirosensō – 1904-1905)
until after the European Great War (1914-1918), until there was a wave of beneficial
prosperity. Until then people didn’t particularly vote with their feet to go to the theatre
but this changed with the numbers of theatre goers suddenly increasing. Many were
a bit drunk and uproariously indiscreet and there was still a brewing sense of mob
mentality. If they went to the theatre those same noisy people would give vent to
their bad manners. A change in these manners was anticipated and nowadays, in
comparison, good behaviour has become the norm. And just like that people began
to take a mostly serious interest when watching plays which is actually a wonderful
thing to happen.

Danjūrō’s katsureki history plays created conflicting public opinion. Generally they
weren’t very well received. Subsequently this “historical plays”* compound Kanji
began being used though it wasn’t one which had been either personally constructed
by Danjūrō or produced by the Antiquarian Society membership. It’s only a little
history that really tells us that it was specifically chosen as a consequence of
assorted ridicule. It was started sarcastically by Kanagaki Robun who wrote it in the
Illustrated News (Hiragana Eri Shimbun) and by doing this its use by the public
suddenly became widespread until today it has become the norm. I imagine that
these katsureki history plays weren’t approved of and were unwelcome. Of course
today this is pretty much insignificant and is seemingly treated as conventional
though in the beginning this was not fostered as a result of good will towards the
reputation of katsureki history plays and was increasingly spread as a consequence
of some peoples’ spite. However, as one would expect as befitting Danjūrō he had
self-confidence and some of those closest to him did not give way to being labelled
with a bad reputation during a banquet. Subsequent introductory experimental
katsureki history plays became increasingly successful with audiences.

47
In November of that year (1884) the Saruwakaza Theatre which had been rebuilt in
the Asakusa Torigoe district re-opened and I attended the performance premiere of
the play ‘Exploits of the Ninth Hōjō Shōgun Takatoki's Illustrious Family’ (Hōjō Kudai
Meika no Isaoshi). This play, with Takatoki’s dance with Tengu long nosed goblins in
the Yoshisada long sword style, had been dramatized by Mokuami. This different but
better Yoshisada style, a triumph for Danjūrō, was discussed by the Antiquarian
Society membership while they examined the armoured helmet and tested the
sword. Matsuoka Ryokuga was asked to produce and publish a one sheet picture on
high quality Japanese paper of the scene depicting the long sword style which would
be distributed by interested friends. Moreover the Takatoki style form used on stage
proved to be popular and subsequently the Yoshisada sword form benefited from the
opportunity for its revival.

Though increasingly popular the success of this version of Takatoki disappeared.
Disagreeably, the greatness of katsureki history plays was awkwardly received by
audiences that were more than a little obstinate though gradually katsureki history
plays were increasingly acclaimed by nearly everyone. However there was a
problem in that another aspect of this was that not everyone saw this category of
play’s fame in such a favourable light. Though in these wholly strange circumstances
in those days, suitably for me as a child, cartoon characters appeared alongside
published articles about this in the “Kabuki News Journal” (Kabuki Shinpō).

2nd edition of Kabuki Shinpō 26th February 1879
This edition carried an article about the Shintomiza Theatre’s new curtain
A gift from foreigners represented by Thomas McClatchie and Heinrich Von Seibold

These cartoons showed Takatoki’s dance with the long nosed Tengu goblins which,
in the event, I remained disenchanted with and looked at them with disinterest.
Naturally of course when I looked at Takatoki I recognised Danjūrō’s portrait. This
and because of what was said about all the members of the Antiquarian Society, that
they were imitating the long nosed Tengu goblins, interested the neighbours. The

48
number of long nosed Tengu goblins was the same as the number of Antiquarian
Society members and when eagerly looking at the picture with the neighbours after
close examination discovered that the family names of the Antiquarian members
were displayed in full in Hiragana script alongside the faces and wings of those long
nosed Tengu goblins that were shown representing them. In other words Danjūrō’s
Antiquarian Society membership was being toyed with and lampooned. To begin
with Danjūrō himself was angered. The Antiquarian Society membership was even
angrier with this outline he said. As a consequence of discussions with the Kabuki
play’s author it was agreed that the person at fault was the person acting in the
capacity of the editor of the “Kabuki News Journal” (Kabuki Shinpō), Kubota
Hikosaku* who found himself in a situation where a very great many objections were
raised. I don’t know whether or not it was entirely the fault of Kubota. As he was the
editor in charge of the journal at the time the article was published the situation was
settled by his submission and publication of a formal letter of apology. At that time
and because of this my family straight away completely cancelled our paid
subscription to the “Kabuki News Journal” (Kabuki Shinpō) though I wasn’t given to
understand the situation and serious nature of the picture they’d published.

*Translator’s note: The writing of Kubota Hikosaku at Waseda University

However, I can say that subsequently Danjūrō’s Antiquarian Society did become
established, going on to last twelve years before it ended. To start Danjūrō opened
up his home for the meetings which were convened on a minimal monthly or bi-
monthly basis. After about two years had passed I was at the theatre visiting his
room in the interval when I happened to see a one fold magazine that the
membership had brought to fruition documenting what Danjūrō was working on. That
day I was, as usual, standing around in a four person doma dirt floor box waiting for
a decision. It was Danjūrō who was the person who decided to send a letter of
invitation which duly arrived. The cost for all the hospitality was Danjūrō’s
responsibility. That aforementioned feeling of ill will that I had assumed was a stance
of old had been of my own making. In the circumstances any cost I would have
incurred for food and drinks was paid for by the membership. Letters of invitation
were always written (by Danjūrō) using his real name Horikoshi Hideshi and on two
or three occasions were personally signed by him as well. Subsequently it became
the responsibility of the Kabuki play author (and song lyric writer) Takeshiba
Hyōsuke san acting as (Danjūrō’s) amanuensis who became responsible for this
work.

49
Part 8 Chitoseza Sightseeing

Part 8 is dedicated to the memory of Nakamura Kanzaburō XVIII who passed away
while it was being translated. Nakamuraya!
http://www.kabuki-bito.jp/news/2012/12/post_577.html

I am writing about the history of the Edo period because it’s disappearing but it won’t
be just about this that I’ll be writing about later. As I haven’t personally seen or heard
about the events of that time it’s difficult to relate to them so I’m writing this to make
that clear. As a consequence I don’t know, I might be obliged to completely skirt
around these events and circumstances, so once more I’m apologising in advance.

I previously wrote about Danjūrō’s circumstances. Except for the start-up and
appearance of theatres I’m now going to write about the person called Onoe
Kikugorō V. In January Meiji 18 (1885) on the occasion of the formal opening
performance* the reconstructed Hisamatsuza Theatre was renamed as the
Chitoseza Theatre. The first Kabuki play was ‘Go Board Tadanobu‘ (Goban
Tadanobu); the second was ‘Brush Seller Kōbei’ (Fude Uri Kōbei, aka Fudeya
Kobe). Danjūrō’s star appearances were in two plays called ‘Shizuka’s Sacred
Dance’ (Shizuka no Hōraku Mai**) and ‘Yamabushi Mountain Priests Welcome’
(Yamabushi Settai) neither of which were very interesting. I have a number of
memories about watching these plays.

Translator’s notes:
* A nishiki-e pictorial record of the performances at the re-opening of the
Hisamatsuza Theatre, renamed as the Chitoseza Theatre, by Baidō Kunimasa aka
Utagawa Kunimasa IV. However, this record indicates that the plays ‘Senzai Soga
Genji no Ishizue’ and ‘Kaze Kurū Kawabe no Meyanagi’ were also performed and
that this took place on the 18th March Meiji 18 (1885). Given Kido’s earlier remarks
about theatres at the time extending their gala performances it may have been the
case that this event was extended right from January through March 1885
** …the "Jinmujō" (Inexhaustible Happiness)—said to have been sung by the
famous Shizuka Gōzen when she danced the Hōraku, or sacred dance, before the
Shōgun Yoritomo at Kamakura Hachimangū
http://www.gutenberg.org/files/19944/19944-h/19944-h.htm

Let’s begin with the first part of my story. At the time I was fifteen years old and didn’t
know the whereabouts of the Chitoseza Theatre. That day I had forgotten that I had
arranged with my father to leave with him and walk to the theatre. After I left a
situation developed. Rather than travel in a rickshaw I walked from Kōjimachi to
Hisamatsu-chō Street. Because I didn’t know where the rebuilt theatre was I got
rather flustered. Unavoidably concerned I stopped at a police box (koban) and made
enquiries of the policeman inside. At Nihonbashi, which was halfway, I asked
someone who looked like a conservative urban sophisticate where it was. In my
childish mind I was feeling a bit uncertain so I approached another policeman and
asked how far it was to the location of the Aoki Print Shop. What I did know was that
it was managed by someone called Aoki Sukekiyo (an author and self-taught English

50
translator) and was in the neighbourhood of, and behind, the Chitoseza Theatre. I
was very embarrassed. I was reluctant to admit that I didn’t know where the
Chitoseza Theatre was but checked anyway. Then, after that, I ran around and
around the area confused. Just then I bumped into a theatre usher from the tea
house who was accompanied by a servant boy. I determinedly asked the
whereabouts of the theatre and it turned out that the man was heading to my tea
house – the servant boy was employed by the Nakamuraya Actors’ Guild. I was so
relieved as I honestly didn’t know anything about the location. After chatting to my
father and mother, all the while posturing childishly, they told me off.

Because this had happened along the way I was flustered. I watched the prologue,
’Go board Tadanobu’ (Goban Tadanobu). Then, “Oh dear!”, for the second on the
bill, which was Travel Dance (Yoshinoyama) of Yoshitsune (and the Thousand
Cherry Trees, Yoshitsune Senbonzakura) Onoe Kikugorō V had been taken ill and
was being replaced by (his brother) Bandō Kakitsu I so the act ‘Yamabushi Settai’
(Senzai Soga Genji Ishizue, the Mountain Priest’s Reception) played before it did.
The Antiquarian Society membership, who had been sending messages to Danjūrō’s
room, then joined him there. I also tagged along, following them to the dressing
room. When I’d seen (Danjūrō’s) ‘Akamatsu Misusuke’ (see Part 2) for the first time I
didn’t have a very good impression and that day Danjūrō’s entire conversation hadn’t
been very pleasant. On this particular day I was alongside many of the Antiquarian
Society’s teachers. I had the lowest ranking seat so, being little, had a ‘backside
view’ while I was waiting. I looked around restlessly and stared at people in vain. I
remember, they were all talking knowingly about a specialist branch of research.
Even though this had been arranged on that day by Danjūrō it was suddenly and
unexpectedly over. It was only after a minute that we all then had to leave while
actors and young men started appearing in the corridor with whom we waited until,
hearing a shout, we moved off. Those young men and actors were Kikugorō’s
students and, near the end of the interval, they said they were just about to go to his
room. I was led by and went with them into Kikugorō’s brand new room. For his forty
something years his hair had thinned to the point of being bald and his actor’s face
was pale and sad.

Translator’s note: Both ‘Goban Tadanobu’ and ‘Yamabushi Settai’ are plays on the
theme of Go Board Tadanobu. See
http://web.archive.org/web/20060319050042/http://www.kiseido.com/printss/p7-
1.htm

Danjūrō repeated what he had been saying with solemnity and in an extremely fluent
Edo dialect and then as he was tired continued to speak while resting. Though I felt
cautious I could see that his ever present charm was working. What sticks in my
memory is that the people from the Antiquarian Society that were there gathered
round and chose the substitute actor and, just in case, asked him to prepare for the
really popular role of Yoshitsune. Kikugorō suddenly became very serious and said
with feeling, ‘Certainly, do make the substitution, certainly, do make the substitution’.
In spite of seeming very formal he, who had been substituted by the nominated actor
for the performance, continued smiling and said…

‘In the circumstances I’m very grateful. I feel awkward and even flattered. My, my…
ask this younger student to go to his theatre box. Afterwards everyone should

51
honour him and be kind to him. Unless my recovery is delayed I pray be prepared as
well as possible for any rumours. My elder brother is indeed cleverer than I with his
choice of substitute’.

Whilst smiling sweetly he bowed his head many times. Was he really showing his
true feelings? Maybe he wasn’t that clever a character? Just supposing, whatever he
said, if it hadn’t been him would Kakistu as an apprentice have been chosen as the
substitute actor? It could certainly be imagined that he might not have been up to it.
The people from the Antiquarian Society then left the dressing room. ‘As usual the
Otowaya Actors’ Guild aren’t very clever’, he said.

He had, so I heard, since playing the role as an apprentice substitute actor become
all the more popular. His smiling face showed how extremely delighted he was. In
the circumstances I had no bad feeling at all. Since then I miss him somewhat and
think about him wistfully. On the subject of Kikugorō’s room, I left shortly afterwards
feeling a little anxious. Subsequently I was never again blessed with opportunity of
visiting his room and only saw him on stage and that was on the occasion when I
first saw him. Out of many people I remembered him as a consequence of just that
single Kabuki play called, ‘‘Brush Seller Kōbei’ (Fude Uri Kōbei).

Some more memories… in one situation I met my junior high school classroom
teacher in the theatre corridor. Amongst the younger pupils he was nicknamed, and
behaved like, a ‘beast’ (kemono). At the time I greeted him genially and we went our
separate ways. After that the preparation for my school lessons was neglected as I
was always frightened that as I said at the time, ‘teachers will still continue to go and
see more plays’. Between them the teacher’s supervision of me increased and I was,
to a certain extent, occasionally told off. Having been brought up with theatre I was
really resentful. Speaking reluctantly I can say that I was told that I was increasingly
excluded from school. Later I was told that this was excessive. At the school I was
going to at the time I ran into some snow at the sports ground and an incident
occurred when by accident a single paper windowpane was broken. A certain
classroom teacher who, telling me off, said ‘I’m wondering if there is any difference
between the school and the theatre?’. For what reason could I not be understood?
For an honest error I was put down. While those sorts of situations were happening I
still carried on watching plays though the circumstances increasingly required extra
vigilance. Though I’ve described this sort of occurrence I don’t know if young people
now might think of lying. At the time I was going to the theatre and watching all the
plays. Today it’s called delinquency and I notice students exhibiting this behaviour.

Though that was one way that pressure was increasingly brought to bear I got to go
and see more and more of my plays. People say that real actors perform plays and
the silly dancing of Tei san (the hairdresser, our neighbour) when compared with the
(dance master, Fukima’s) Oo-Yakko san (big servant, referring to the character
Banzuin Chōbei, a type of machi-yakko) clearly could not be called that (see Part 2).
However, in the circumstances as I had to rely all the time on following the waist
purse (koshiginchaku) of my father and mother I didn’t really go all the time. As was
appropriate for someone of my age they wouldn’t pay for me to go along with them
intending to teach me the value of learning about hardship.

52
The grand plays at the time were given final seal of approval by the grand theatres.
Namely the leading Shintomiza Theatre, Nihonbashi Hisamatsu-chō Street’s
Chitoseza Theatre, Asakusa Torigoe’s Nakamuraza Theatre, Asakusa
Saruwakamachi’s Ichimuraza Theatre, and Hongo Haruki-chō Street’s Harukiza
Theatre. Ordinary plays were given the final seal of approval by the Kotobukiza
Theatre (later a warehouse, then a sushi restaurant and finally a museum) in Honjo’s
Aioi-chō Street, Yotsuya Araki-chō Street’s Kiriza Theatre, and Nihonbashi Kakigara-
chō Street’s Nakajimaza’s Sanza Theatre, as were the other lesser plays. Plays
were being watched and assessed for their profitability. Plays that were less
profitable went and others didn’t. It happened that my feet indubitably gradually
found themselves going in the direction of the lesser plays.

53
Part 9 Torikuma no Shibai

Plays Performed by not so famous Actors in Tōkyō – The Harukiza in Hongō District
– Six Sen Entrance Fees – Entrance Congestion – The First Insider’s Drama Expert

In order to establish the greater and lesser classifications of theatre after Meiji 23
(1890) they were called grand theatres (ō-gekijō) and minor theatres (shogekijō).
Before that, in a theatrical context, significantly grand plays (ō-shibai) were those
belonging to the grand theatres. Minor plays (koshibai) like dance comedy (dōkete
odori), as they were called, were quite famous in the theatre world. Usually lowborn
people attended low class plays (donchō shibai, lit. drop curtain plays), which wasn’t
much of a problem. Actors in low class plays tended to come from people born into
the travelling entertainment industry who had settled down in one location. Theatre
insiders still thought of minor plays, in relation to grand plays, as being associated
with underprivileged people. Those underprivileged people weren’t to be scorned as
many competent actors were discovered in those circumstances.

Audience entry fees for the grand plays effectively excluded the underprivileged from
attending. It was also in this period that the other issue was that there were no silent
movies (these were often played at the minor theatres). The minor plays tended to
welcome a more low class audience. All of them were thriving. Now I was told in
Meiji 18 (1885) that for the most part all the minor plays went on thriving for about
nine years. (Shinjuku) Ushigome’s Akagiza Theatre, Shitaya’s Jōruriza Theatre, and
the three theatres of Morimoto (aka Azabu Jūban), Morimotoza Theatre, Takasagoza
Theatre (now a soba noodle shop), and Kaiseiza Theatre, all thrived. I went
sightseeing, walking to the Morimotoza Theatre and the Takasagoza Theatre. The
entrance fees were about three sen. Pretending that I was a low paid office worker
from a large family I “squeezed” into the hiradoma reed mat box in front of the stage
with the mostly low class audience. In addition to the entrance fee a floor cushion
(zabuton) cost one sen with a tip of one sen. In all I was squeezed out of five sen to
watch a one act play. The head (zagashira) of Morimotoza Theatre was Ichikawa
Danshō and of the Takasagoza Theatre was Bandō Katsunosuke. Danshō and
Katsunosuke had both come down from the grand play scene.

In those days people were developing the low class drop curtain plays in the same
way as minor plays. As a consequence today’s minor theatres have been perfectly
adapted for their purpose. The main hanamichi walkway through the audience,
though not yet accepted as part of mainstream theatre, was created for low class
drop curtain plays. The shortened hanamichi at the present Teigeki Imperial Theatre
is just like this. From stage left (as seen from the audience) it was a constructed as a
shortened diagonal. The east hanamichi was incomplete and the revolving stage
(mawari butai) was another element not yet accepted as part of mainstream theatre.
The stage setting was changed at intervals by use of the curtain or was done with
the use of ‘small wagon’ stages (hikidōgu - set pieces designed to move the actors
on and off the stage). The curtain wasn’t pulled sideways but instead a silk gauze
web was hung from overhead.

54
.
Ichikawa Danshō – second from left

The more I think about it today such structures aren’t particularly that remarkable. To
a certain extent the construction of these new forms was welcomed. Though not
much more is known about these particular features, the development of which is
owed to those days, without them there would be no hanamichi walkway and no
revolving stage (mawari butai), though the drop curtain works. It would be a great
inconvenience if these same things no longer existed and I get the feeling that
without these things the stage would look much more every-day and mundane. It
was well known in the theatre that low class ‘drop curtain’ plays really originated from
the misery of the lower classes. The premises were naturally small. The tatami mat
zabuton floor cushions were really dirty and mildewed. Then the grand theatres were
already using gas lamps though performances of low class ‘drop curtain’ plays didn’t
have them. At the time when it rained or it was just about sunset it could be very
gloomy. In an old fashioned way candles were put on the edge of the stage and the
“face light” (tsura akari - candle attached to the end of a pole) was used on stage.
During intermission I had a five sen bentō box lunch, three sen sushi, one sen five
rin cheap sweets and salted rice crackers, all of which were being sold. I chewed on
a piece of eight rin tarugaki (persimmons mellowed in a sake cask) while I watched
the farewell to the sacred willow tree of ‘Sanjūsangen-dō’ (aka Yanagi) and I
remember, in those circumstances, how happy I was.

Whereas today most competing theatres are opening their doors for performance
runs on an almost monthly basis before this Grand Theatres would only do so three,
four, maybe five times a year. The series of monthly Kabuki performance were
changed on a regular basis. The number of low class ‘drop curtain’ play performance
runs were limited though a number of their Kabuki play performance runs are
remembered as having been very useful and having done very well. Low class ‘drop
curtain’ plays, actors and audiences were in those days regarded as extremely
inferior and to be despised. Surely this was a mistake for their structure is now, in
principle, the same structure as that used by the Grand Theatres whose

55
performances have increasingly come to resemble those early low class ‘drop
curtain’ plays. Are they really developing those former low class ‘drop curtain’ plays?
Are Grand Theatres now really declining? If there isn’t any interest of this kind of
thing then it doesn’t matter. One source said that it was alleged that for plays that
were deemed to be low class ‘drop curtain’ there was barely any training undertaken,
and therefore they were to be disdained. It was customary for earlier audiences not
to be packed out as some of the plays being shown seemed to have been especially
unpopular. The persistent present day position is that there is an unspoken and
uneasy ideological back tracking in regard to those earlier low class ‘drop curtain’
plays.

It’s appropriate when talking next about small plays to say a lot more. I am related to
the Torikuma Shibai visitors and though I’ve said as much about myself my family
has even more of a personal connection with Torikuma’s Mr. (Mitamura) Kumakichi,
though not of the stage. That person from the theatre world helped to satisfy my
boyhood thirst for knowledge, a gift from the Torikuma Clan for which I express my
gratitude.

Mr. Kumakichi’s surname was not well known. Generally the holders of the name
Torikuma previously did business in Ōsaka as poulterers. Whilst that may be the
case he led a troupe of quite experienced men, Ōsaka actors, on a provincial tour.
By what chance this and the contracts they were bound to came about is unknown.
In April Meiji 18 (1885) the same troupe of Ōsaka actors were taken to the capital
and after arriving they came on-board, setting up their headquarters at the Harukiza
Theatre, formerly called the Hongōza Theatre, in Hongō where their performance
runs opened that May. Ichikawa Danjūrō IX had previously worked at the theatre and
then after that Ichikawa Udanji I, Ichikawa Gonjūrō and others doing various jobs but
business conditions had deteriorated and some who were working there were caught
as a result of corruption.

56
Ichikawa Fukunojō, Ichikawa Komasaburō, Arashi Rinshō, Ichikawa Koinosuke,
Onoe Shōju, and Nakamura Takesaburō IV were all actors in the troupe. That this
worked so simply with so few actors merits more of a mention in that Torikuma
Shibai was extraordinarily and oddly advantageously successful in the theatre world
with a full house every single time. While the opening events of the Grand Theatres
happened only three or four times a year the low class ‘drop curtain’ plays opening
events were scheduled and ably performed every month without fail. Along with
these Torikuma’s Harukiza Theatre also had a wonderful revolving stage (mawari
butai) and a hanamichi walkway, both things which the Grand Theatres also then
arranged to have. Every month without fail the song and dance repertoire of the
Kabuki plays was changed for each opening and with that the sajiki galleries and
takadoma dirt floor boxes were at extra capacity, and the hiradoma dirt floor boxes in
front of the stage were at least four deep and right from the start for each opening
there was a full house for which the entire arena was opened up. Showing the
theatre world how to pack audiences in like this with low class ‘drop curtain’ plays
prompted the Grand Theatres to follow suit winning themselves great popular
approval.

The first thing to say is that the entrance fees were cheap. Even on the occasion of a
full house the entrance fee was six sen though if arriving after the prologue a half
ticket was given. These were popular and were available on request for the following
month’s performances for people who were looking for a half entrance price of three
sen for the following month’s plays. This was a period of sustained cheap entrance
fees priced at three sen with the Grand Theatres which were monitoring the situation
adopting the same pricing policy. Cheap is as cheap does and the various pricing
structures were no different. I certainly took the option and brought my own bentō
lunch box even though with these low class ‘drop curtain’ plays bentō box lunches
and confectionery were being sold on the premises. There were also certain features
that were characteristic of the theatre. Conventional male ushers were completely
phased out to be all replaced by young women who were brought in to act as ushers
and food sellers. This was based on the Kamigata (Kyōto and Ōsaka) style of theatre
services and were accepted in Tōkyō’s theatres where they worked as what were
called “waitresses”, something new and which was accepted as it was felt the
change was a good one. The waitresses were all referred to as “O-Ume san”
(Mistress Plum Blossom), something which the audiences all did calling out loudly
from all over the auditorium ‘O-Ume san, O-Ume san’ which were responded to by
those O-Ume san as soon as they were called. In the middle of the curtain being
raised the babies would all burst into tears and the O-Ume san were responsible for
taking those children out into the corridor and soothing them, singing them lullabies,
something which happened often. In the winter the O-Ume san uniform was a black
cotton kimono and during the summer they wore a medium thickness yukata (light
summer kimono).

On rainy days the audiences’ wooden geta walking clogs were given a wash,
something which made this theatre feel congenial. At this time there weren’t electric
trams so when people arrived from some distance their geta, which were covered in
mud, were washed one by one, something for which people were very grateful. This
was unusual with our geta for our houseboy who, as he had no access to draining
baskets, had to improvise by holding the muddy geta in his hands while he washed
them till they appeared clean again. Additionally the theatre improvised on rainy days

57
by loaning out bangasa (crude oiled paper umbrellas) which some borrowed for a
long time, a blind eye being turned to the fact that some people, dishonestly, did not
return them though it was accepted that they would later be left behind.

In the same way as theatres before them the opening events for today’s theatres are
watched out for by audiences everywhere. Rainy days, hot days, cold days, when
things seemed miserable, even when suffering we still went to Torikuma Shibai at
least ten minutes earlier than usual. The official opening time for Torikuma’s
Harukiza Theatre was at 7 o’clock in the morning and closing time was at around
about 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Doors were opened to admit guests about an hour
earlier and then, though not very capable, I would go at 6 o’clock. From about 5
o’clock at least the crowd would start to build with people standing around passing
the time waiting in place. Then, by the time the doors were opened, many people, a
hundred or who knows, maybe even a thousand people, were waiting in line but it
seemed like everyone for themselves as suddenly everyone started jostling for
position at the same time. The theatre was responsible for the care and
management of everyone’s footwear as the doors, which weren’t really large enough
to match the capacity of the crowd, were opened. For a short while the narrow doors
managed to contain and hold back the crowds amongst whom were anxious
quarrelling mothers with shrill shrieking children. Barriers were put in place to control
the anxious and pandemonium ensued as somehow or other half delirious people
were packed into the premises. Ah… I was happy and breathed a sigh of relief as I
managed to end up taking my seat. Now I think about it the amount of worry was
ridiculously more than it should have been. In those days we endured pains of hell
unequalled by those who used the other Grand Theatres’ agreeably cheap seats.

In this way they took the advantage and prospered. Another from Ōsaka, Nakamura
Shikaku I, came north to Tōkyō his popularity having been enhanced by the interest
in him by the late Bandō Hikosaburō V. This procession to the capital continued with
the arrival of Nakamura Komanosuke VI and Ichikawa Utasaku. Later on they were
also joined from a location near Tōkyō by Ichikawa Kūzō III. The fame of the
Harukiza Theatre was complemented by the arrival of increasing numbers of such
people whilst that of other Grand Theatres was temporarily reduced and surpassed.

Ichikawa Danzō VII, previously Ichikawa Kūzō III

58
I was nearly at the Harukiza theatre when I passed “the turning point”. From
Kōjimachi’s Motozono-chō Street I walked until I passed Hongō’s Haruki-chō Street
where, as near as possible, I found myself standing unexpectedly at the entrance.
That morning at 3 or 4 o’clock I’d left home feeling strangely unconcerned. Then,
having reached the large meadow called Sanzaki field at Kanda’s Misaki-chō, where
murders and highway robberies frequently took place, it felt very different. At the time
I was about fourteen or fifteen years old and with a fellow traveller we flew across
that dark and desolate meadow. Arriving at Hongō from Suidōbashi Bridge we heard
the sound of a fox coming from the bank of the water course that fed the fields of
green tea. I shrugged my small shoulders and stamping my hōba geta (clogs with
magnolia wood supports) clip clopped hurriedly along the route. We were repeatedly
surrounded by packs of stray dogs.

On this one occasion for an event in November a fine rain shower materialised and
as I didn’t have an umbrella for my journey to Hongō I reached my destination
soaking wet. To make matters worse I stood in front of the entrance exposed to the
rain for more than an hour. My body was just frozen from the penetrating cold and I
thought I would regret this. On that same occasion when I risked the rain by going
out before dawn a decision was made about the Kabuki play ‘Plum Blossoms in
Snow’ (Setchū Bai) which was suddenly declared suspended. With a lingering heavy
heart I retraced my steps. At that time it so happened that the Torikuma Shibai’s
regular guests were all experiencing the same bitter feeling.

For me it was a blessing that it was a principle of the Harukiza Theatre that it showed
a considerable variety of Kabuki plays. Other theatres as well as those in Tōkyō
mostly produced and showed other types of Kabuki plays. A very strange version of
‘Chūshingura’ (The Treasury of Loyal Retainers) was shown where Yoichibei was
portrayed as pure white, Kaoyo Gozen was avenged with Okaya’s sacrificial
substitution, and the sly Sadakurō was caught. The work of Tsuruya Namboku IV
which hadn’t been performed in public until it was shown in the Meiji era was called
’Revenge of Gappō at the Crossroads’ (Katakiuchi Gappō ga Tsuji aka An Illustrated
Picture Book of the Crossroads of Gappō, Ehon Gappō ga Tsuji) which starred
Nakamura Komanosuke VI as Gappō and Ichikawa Kuzō III as Saeda
Daigakunosuke and Tateba no Taheiji.

Saeda Daigakunosuke and his warriors attack Gappō who is climbing the giant statue of Enma-ō, the Judge of Hell, Katakiuchi
Gappō ga Tsuji by Kuniyoshi, 1852

59
My persistence paid off as patience with the customs of the Harukiza Theatre
allowed me to see a variety of plays. I was blessed with at least three to four years of
continued travelling to the Harukiza Theatre becoming my family’s drama expert.
Supposing that the Harukiza Theatre hadn’t developed in the way that it did and my
pocket money hadn’t been enough then I wouldn’t have remembered anything at all
about its Kabuki plays. How much more must I now consider the Torikuma clan with
gratitude? Not long afterwards the Torikuma returned to its usual location in Ōsaka
and the troupe for the most part dispersed. Ichikawa Fukunojō, later known as
Ichikawa Metora II, along with Ichikawa Komasaburō, later known as Ichikawa
Sōzaburō VI, both became the disciples of Ichikawa Danjūrō IX. Ichikawa Koinosuke,
later Onoe Umezō, became the disciple of Onoe Kikugorō V. In particular, as
Danjūrō’s disciple, Fukunojō’s Metora gradually advanced to become an onnagata
female role specialist something which Ichikawa Monnosuke VI also specialised in.
Later on Mizoguchi Gonzaburō became the manager of the Harukiza Theatre
moving more towards the theatre world’s established methodology and away from
that of the Torikuma School.

As my personal expenses were really only a hundredth of a yen when Mitamura
Kumakichi’s Torikuma Shibai Theatre Troupe was performing at the Harukiza I would
of course go to the theatre along with the rest of the audience to watch them so was
lucky enough to mingle with and meet other fans.

An e-banzuke advertising poster of Torikuma Shibai’s debut at the Harukiza

The extensive repairs on the Shintomiza Theatre were completed at the beginning of
November Meiji 18 (1885) in time for the opening celebrations on the 24th. Along with
others I took delivery of my personal invitation at home though I attended together
with my mother and some other relations, carrying winter rice and boiled rice with red
beans packed in a small wooden food box which, as Torikuma Shibai started late,
we put to one side. That day at the department store’s restaurant they were selling
cheap reheated things like winter rice and boiled rice with red beans so we decided
that early in the day we could probably do with something more substantial, naturally
delicious and appetising, like cooked rice and vegetables packed and pressed into
two individually stacked food boxes.

First it was Nakamura Sōjūrō, originally from Ōsaka, ready for his part of the
programme, his forte, ‘Yūshoku Kamakurayama’ (Ancient military customs at

61
Kamakura Mountain), and for the middle act I think it was Danjūrō’s ‘Shiragazome no
Sanemori’ and correctly ‘Funa Benkei’ (Benkei on the Boat), then, as I first thought,
Ichikawa Sadanji I’s Miura Arajirō in ‘Yūshoku Kamakurayama’ attracted my
attention. Sōjūrō’s speech as Sano Genzaemon was special, stylised as it always
was, in the scene at Kenchōji Temple at which point he then shouted in an all the
more intensely pleasurable rolling and thrillingly thunderous voice, ‘Silence!
Silence! S.. s… s… silence!’, enjoyable for me because since at that time it was a
script that was often revised by Sadanji, secondly it conformed to a set formula in a
similar, traditionalist, rhythmic compositional style of acting. In fact it’s true that the
rhythm of the script was enriched under the reformist influence of the previous
generation’s Sadanji and wasn’t something to be undervalued and considered
negatively. Appearing for the first time ever was Atsumi Goro in ‘Akamatsu Manyu’.
Miura Arajirō, coming from the tsuyoiarai (strong rough: modern – aragato) acting
style, left a profound and deeply engraved impression on my tiny and crowded
intellect, I know… I know… I couldn’t help myself thinking hard in public whilst
absorbing myself in literary style guides.

The plot of Sanemori’s Katsureki (historical) Kabuki, based on historical events, was
rightly interesting and effortlessly successful and the development of Funa Benkei an
interesting success. Danjūrō’s talent in Funa Benkei as the ghost of Tomomori, and
his appearance and the Nōh costume’s form! And the long sword he carried
thrillingly from the agemaku pale blue curtain onto the hanamichi walkway extending
from the stage through the audience. In faltering movements he began the standing
dance, turning back again and again, breathtakingly swiftly, toward the agemaku. At
that time I think I was, rightly, too dammed moved to tears by that sad miserable
threatening spirit, as well as Danjūrō’s skill and performance. Well! Until then I’d
greatly and compulsively not bothered to allow myself to resolve many a self-centred
dislike to some of the great stars I’d seen before. In particular at that time those in
the most abundant, undemonstrative, plays by Torikuma. Especially when I
compared them to that which I would rather have seen, which might have possibly
moved my spirit if for no other reason than because of the stirring, superb skill and
forceful speech of Danjūrō. At any rate at every theatre, without digressing from the
facts and uncaring of repudiation, I succumbed to this Tomomori. I recall from my
youth that at around the time when I was about fourteen years old ‘Funa Benkei’ was
being repeatedly performed.

To a certain extent I had developed a great admiration for Danjūrō’s Tomomori, who
amongst other things, as a youth I had great admiration for. I considered the role well
done though on the face of things and despite appearing admiring this was not to be
relied on because afterwards I was unfair and flippant towards the piece though at
the time being in fact overcome and theatrically weeping many times realising just
how overwhelmingly popular with the audience it was. A classical maxim for every
theatre at the time was that popularity with the audience always seemed to be
disappointingly varied. Following the theatrical speech of Tomomori, Torikuma’s low
class Kabuki Theatre plays were in a different class altogether and couldn’t be
compared. I also went to the so called Grand Theatre which usually drew in a full
house for a first time show and accordingly was usually packed to capacity. In May
of the following year, Meiji 19 (1886) at the Shintomiza Theatre the time was deemed
right for the performance of the popular play about Watanabe Kazan and Takano
Chōei called ‘The Tale of Lusheng’s Dream’ (Yume Monogatari Rosei Yōhiru).

62
It so happens that I’ve made a decision, for a while at least, to make do with some
trivial discussions on questions about things not known about the theatre and though
it wasn’t due to anything in particular they rarely got sold out. Such subjects range
from the theatre’s dirt floor galleries (masu), to the example of the distribution of false
publicity, and the degree to which it was journalistic spin, which is the same as the
dry river bed (kawara) of Tamagawa River. It’s in general situations that water
current will flow in a single section of a dry river bed in no more than one stream.

Translator’s note: kawara mono (riverbed people) and kawara kojiki (riverbed
beggars) are unflattering terms for actors and Kido seems to be using a pun, or
sharé, to put down and to comment on the duplicitous nature of theatre publicity and
publicists of the time, today we know them as spin doctors. What Kido also seems to
be saying through this idiomatic passage of text is that while a few theatre publicists
may have gone too far most publicity could be seen as genuine. As further reading of
this memoir reveals in his acerbic retrospective recollections of ‘Yumemonogatari
Rosei Yōhiru’ and later occasional dismissals of Torikuma Shibai Kido may be
thinking about, and referring to, their publicists in particular. In light of this it becomes
more obvious why ‘Yume Monogatari’ or ‘Tale of a Dream’ has been specifically
referred to in the memoir’s title and Torikuma Shibai only has a passing nod at the
beginning of the article

I haven’t written much for these last three years. So before I end up bathing
needlessly in five years of dry river bed illiteracy and as a primary precautionary
measure I’m confident in leaving behind my remaining notes and confidential papers.
It’s been agreed that most urgently and for the sake of precaution I need to co-
operate my schedule with the theatre because it has been my intention to consider
the descendants of the stage. How awfully many years have passed? I need in this
instance to investigate the extent of my obsessively composed notes and
confidential papers. I’ve deduced that the plays of Torikuma truthfully four times
undermined (Japanese proverb) expectations a little at every theatre entertainment
event that was performed and the entertainment provided by its special techniques
director for fight scenes (tokushu) continued to be pompous. As is generally usual for
plays I haven’t been able to help but express my opinion. Nevertheless on the
water’s surface of the Tamagawa’s dry river bed time and again delightful awkward
contractions can inevitably be seen. At your house heavy floods await under
pressure*.

*Translator’s note: Kido seems to be inferring with metaphors (the longer the kawara,
dry river bed, of Torikuma, runs the more ‘contractions’ occur, and, ‘his’ house being
flooded under pressure) that, in his opinion, the demise of Torikuma was inevitable

At the Shintomiza however there was a prosperous full house with people
enthusiastically filling the dirt floor boxes, the raised boxes (takadoma) and galleries
(sajiki) as well. Truthfully, because of astonishing quality of the tuna, my
concentration was distracted. The middle act, on its first commission, was to be
‘Suikoden Yuki Danmari’ (Tales of the Water Margin: A Pantomime in the Snow), it
was the tachimawari fight in the snow between Danjūrō’s Kyūmonryū (Nine Dragon)
Shishin and Sadanji’s flower-priest Rochishin which was rightly and broadly
unanimously popular. I became familiar with and knowledgeable about the danmari

63
pantomime in the dark. In the middle of the snow the usually formal pantomime in
the dark was unusually and impossibly nimble. Then there was the sung narrative
with shamisen accompaniment (jōruri) ‘Setsugekka’ (Snow, moon and flowers), and
then the Danjūrō’s popular ‘Sagi Musume’ (The Heron Maiden) and then his
‘Yasuna’. However amongst all of this tremendous popularity there was an imminent
failure, primarily ‘Yume Monogatari’. Ah! But then, though the play’s popularity is an
absolutely excellent thing, it assuredly now appears that on this occasion there were
far too many attention-grabbing Kabuki plays. Though it seems to have been true
that Danjūrō’s Kazan, was a portrayal of substance, it was said that Sadanji’s Chōei
and Torimono surrender scene was a tearfully dreary study in tedium. In addition to
which they behaved like weeping willows fluttering in the wind. I arrived at a decision
in my mind about making public my views about the bombastic aragoto scene
section; at the very least the audience may have inadvertently questioned the
behaviour presented in the play, not least to repudiate its reputation. If I also recall
correctly those of us from Shintomi-chō Street afterwards travelled together as a
group. Oh and we overdid it, visiting the theatre day after day. Indeed to say, and
accurately, nothing of the number of Sundays which I spent visiting, pausing (pant)
for (pant) breath (pant) and returning stumbling, confused, and looking sadly choked,
yah!

Strangely enough of course Danjūrō’s dynamism triumphed in that theatre. I went
backstage, following behind my father, stealing Danjūrō’s time between acts
because usually at this time during the performance he was very busy. His tone of
voice indicated that there was to be an important Kabuki drama lecture. Firstly he
opinioned, by means of many satisfying cooperative script revisions and other
especially enjoyable additions, ‘In what way is this book occasionally transliterated?
What’s more, isn’t what Kawatake Mokuami and the rest say interconnected?
Understand! It’s not troublesome’ and so on. As I was a very regular client he
chatted to me like an older brother. Besides, since the previous year’s Tomomori it
wasn’t like I had to wait for an eternity to meet with him. It happened that I
recognised this famous star as my guide; he who had a correct and constantly
reconstituting fiery spirit. I feel dreadful in digressing so badly, but it’s because of
reminiscing about someone I miss awfully.

Kawatake Mokuami

The fifth act of those Kabuki plays was Watanabe Kazan’s ritual seppuku suicide
scene. At the point of the seppuku of Danjūrō’s Kazan, I wondered if there was a
problem regarding the participation of the chief retainer Kawazumi, an influential
aged official. The scene then changed and the chief retainer’s folding picture screen

64
accommodated Kazan’s body. His last moments were commendable, admirable and
triumphant. The maid servant brought a metal wash basin to wash the blood off their
hands, the old man’s mind confident in being able to mediate after having been
shaken up. ‘To neglect water’, something one needs for washing the hands clean of
blood as ‘Usual practice with blood* does not help to wash away a person’s death’
he said. I too have enjoyed reading the magnificent Jūhachi Shiriyaku (Eighteen
Histories), and I know about the history of ‘usual practice with blood does not help to
wash away a person’s death’. Also I thought hard, really hard, about trying to name
Danjūrō’s tricky larger-than-life acting method. Mokuami, that venerable old man,
personally wrote the script (and also unfortunately again repeated these lines) ‘to
neglect water, something one needs for washing one’s hands’, as is usual practice
with blood, and also other phrases and things. And there was no mie pose!? Is this
Danjūrō’s own work? Is it something that might be his teaching? Anyway, I was a
little dissatisfied in Danjūrō’s own adaptation, though actually experiencing this first
different experimental revision was really worthwhile.

Ichikawa Danjūrō IX in the role of Watanabe Kazan, in the play ‘Yumemonogatari Rosei no Sugata-e’ at the Shintomi-za, 5th
month of Meiji 19 (1886)
http://yajifun.tumblr.com/post/15443779177/album-of-42-carte-de-visite-photographs-of-kabuki

*Translator’s note: ‘Usual practice with blood’ is a pun on kōshitsu no chi o hiite iru,
to be descended from the Imperial House, implying that the death of Kazan at the
time lay with the authorities

What’s more, under the auspices of various newspapers regarding ‘Yume
Monogatari’, the ‘new play’ was given unified praise by the dramatist clique of the
remnants of Edo’s political opposition. In my opinion after this play everyone needed
to have been allowed to express themselves about this topic and have many
discussions. On this occasion it seemed likely that this would happen immediately,
provocatively evoking many appropriate good luck wishes! Truly in that respect I too
provoked provocatively.

In the matter of an existing working theatre the Shintomiza was often sold out.
Indeed it was an enjoyable revelation even when and in spite of a wretched
recession it was simultaneously in competition with the Chitoseza when it first
opened (February 1885). For the most part listing this competitive named group of

A zangirimono Kabuki play (‘cropped hair’ play, new domestic dramas with actors
who had cut their hair Western style) called ‘Koinoyami Ukai no Kagaribi’ (Blazing
Lovesickness - the Cormorant Fishermen) was performed with Kikugorō as Komatsu
the Geisha and as Sasakotōge the wolf swollen from eating. It was agreed that
Kikugorō’s role as Kafusaku the cormorant fisher was truly a good display of a
fisherman. Before opening day many various rumours were being bandied about.
Well now… every opening day’s performance was deemed a gloomy and
melancholy setting; did it matter that not all the fans went? Poisonously selfish, every
day I went to a poorly attended and idle theatre. Here, it appeared at first glance,
was a ‘Tamagawa dry river bed’* case.

*Translator’s note: kawara mono (riverbed people) and kawarakojiki (riverbed
beggars) are unflattering terms for actors and this idiom once again seems to imply
that the opening of the Chitoseza theatre was a failure

Talking of which, here again the cover charge was really unsound. As it happened
when leaning toward the Shintomiza I was completely reliant on my father’s purse.
Strange how very much my costs amounted to. However when leaning toward
Chitoseza I often went with my friend Mr. S Jnr. and a couple of other spectators.
And I recall that, if my memory serves me correctly, my attendances cleared out the
allowances from my needy purse on which I readily relied. That particular period of
the competition between the Chitoseza and the Shintomiza resulted in especially
discounted prices. Many said that from that point in time so many prices were so low
it was difficult to believe how precisely insignificant they were. Certainly a variety of
pleasantly low prices was pleasing for sure. For me my expenses were just over one
hundredth of a yen. I was happy to confidently go out on the cheap, a six foot space
(one ken) gallery box (sajiki) for five people sharing was two yen eighty sen, a six
foot space (one ken) raised box (takadoma) was two yen twenty sen, a six foot
space (one ken) in the pit in the front of the stage (hiradoma) where people sat on
reed mats (masu) was one yen thirty sen, and besides for fifty sen utensils for the
comfort of guests (shikimono) would be spread out on tatami in every six foot space
(one ken) space for people to eat. Correspondingly a six foot space (one ken) in the
pit in front of the stage (hiradoma) cost one yen eighty sen with a maximum
occupancy of five people costing each only thirty six sen. Such a small fee to pay so
anyone can watch a play. Even though the cost might not vary much from that time
to today the cost then was certainly no more than three yen sixty sen, though it’s real
value was ten times the cost of entry. So then… it’s an indisputable fact that some
low prices were going to be chosen. What's more at the time it was said that it was
regretfully overcrowded because on opening day entry was free of charge and for
another two days entry was half price.

66
Shintomiza Theatre

Included in the fee to watch a play there was also a broad variety of cheaply priced
food and drink. There were three varieties of considerably good and inviting pastries
and boxed lunches and sushi, a portion for one person at twenty two sen and what's
more it was first class. Their second grade selection of three varieties cost
seventeen sen and that being the case it was said that they were quite rightly much
sought after. Then we watched a play with food and drink whilst occupying our
considerably good first class hiradoma (orchestra pit) for which we paid in total for
two people one yen sixteen sen. Then at the appropriate time when we left the
theatre we gave the usher a large tip, my contribution being twenty sen, in total no
more than one yen thirty six sen. In spite of the play’s occasional small attendance
we called encouragement (kakegoe) from where we were sitting. Our principle
houseboy for the evening was in his five person standing box (doma) in the area
around the stage. Even if at the time we did decide that it was reasonably expensive
an entire day was spent watching the plays, eating box lunches (bentō) and sushi
which cost exactly sixty eight sen a portion for one person. Of course we came to the
theatre walking from Kōjimachi district to Hisamatsu-chō Street.

It so happened on the opening day the entry fee was free, which incidentally was
discussed very little. But on opening days it was also noted as happened often in
those days there was also the usual fifty percent discount on offer. Often worried
about the expense when it was rumoured that there was free entry, when the
Chitoseza and the Shintomiza were within walking distance of each other, we
crossed the street. Though unable to understand why it was free and the unusual
opening hours we often chose the Chitoseza. We were told it would open its doors at
9am sometimes 10am and that the advertised afternoon opening was at 3pm and
sometimes at 4pm. Also the break between shows was two to three hours long and
we were nervous, not realising that the plays were two to three curtains long before
the theatre closed. Anyway, as there was no charge there was no reason for us to
complain. When visiting we waited patiently to see the event in case there was
something amiss. Free of charge it was pretty packed and though seemingly a bit on
the quiet side at that hour in the event of boredom setting in the audience would
probably have eventually got a bit rowdy.

Nevertheless our excuse was that it was as a result of the advertisement that it was
free of charge. What an extraordinary decision it was! I fear that on the day the
people were confused and I imagine the audience cynical. As for the actual
circumstances even if there was no free entry there were also half price tickets
anyway. On the opening day I was unexpectedly alone. In the event it was said from
the start that on reflection the opening day performances were of a consistently good
quality and the audience for the evening having engaged emotionally with the

67
performances the fans’ expectations were fulfilled. Even though from the audiences
point of view the situation with the disorderly theatre schedule was disappointing
there were, similar to the cheap class tickets, all new opening day free entry and half
price tickets. On opening day, whichever day of the month that might be, the visitors
all invariably appeared and queued at the same time. As well as free entry
advantageously cheap admission was also advertised. Because visitors particularly
chose opening day the availability of spare seats was very scarce. I accompanied
opening day visitors not just as an enthusiast but as a dramatic expert for part of the
audience. As was uniquely customary it was always an extraordinarily very full house
on opening day. Also when whichever theatre on opening day had a small
attendance I always decided to stay by the stage. Given that an Edo maxim says
‘daughter-in-law do go and see the opening day’s play’ if it was decided for the
daughter to go to the opening day play it was considered unusually enthusiastic.
Also, without a doubt, women visitors almost certainly chose the same play. It’s not
recommended to say something like that, even hesitatingly, to get women to do
something. Even though this sentiment was felt from previous experience both in the
past and, as so happens, today the type of visitors on opening day never really
varied or were remarkably different, though what will happen in the future will
become clearer as time progresses.

In April the following year, (Meiji) 20 (1887), an event unparalleled in the theatre
world took place (though in olden times legend has it that both Saruwaka Kanzaburō
and his son were honoured with an appearance at an Imperial review at Kyōto’s
Imperial Palace). That event was an Imperial review for their Imperial Majesties the
Emperor and Empress at the residence of Count Inoue Kaoru (on a makeshift stage
in his garden) in Azabu Toriizaka which was made public in advance and undertaken
by appointed and authorised theatre professionals. This took place over four days,
April 26th, 27th, 28th and 29th. The most important actors taking part were Ichikawa
Danjūrō IX, Onoe Kikugorō V, Ichikawa Sadanji I, Nakamura Shikan IV, Nakamura
Fukusuke IV, Bandō Kakitsu I, and Onoe Matsusuke IV. The updated Kabuki
performance programme that they performed was ‘The Treasury of Loyal Retainers’
(Chūshingura) third and fourth acts (Sandanme and Yodanme), ‘The Subscription
List’ (Kanjinchō), ‘The Long Nosed Goblin Dance’ (Takatoki), ‘The Soga Brothers’
Raid’ (Soga no Uchiiri), ‘Ise Saburō’, ‘The Village School’ (Terakoya’), ‘The Bridal
Journey’ (Chūshin Michiyuki), ‘Yoshitsune Yoshino Ochi’, ‘The Earth Spider’
(Tsuchigumo), ‘Mountain Witch’ (Yamanba), ‘The Third Man’ (Ayatsuri Sambasō),
‘Rokkasen’, ‘Genroku Odori’, and ‘Utsubo Zaru’. Everyone knew about this
beforehand. I knew that a report had been leaked to the press though it was not
known by who but it was certainly very detailed.

In April 2007, International House welcomed Their Majesties the Emperor and
Empress to a performance of the kabuki play Kanjinchō, performed by Ichikawa
Danjūrō XII (photo at left). This was in honour of the 120th anniversary of the first-
ever imperial attendance at a kabuki play—in 1887 at Foreign Minister Inoue Kaoru’s
private residence (where I-House stands today). Kabuki was considered a low-brow,
mass entertainment then, but was eyed by Meiji government leaders as a performing
art that could be developed to rival Western opera. The Meiji Emperor’s attendance
not only helped elevate the status of kabuki actors but also encouraged the genre’s
artistic and commercial development. Danjūrō IX, who starred in Kanjinchō in 1887,
is said to have been so nervous as to lose five kilograms!
http://www.i-house.or.jp/eng/programs/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/ihq_02.pdf

There was a newspaper article, which has stayed in my memory, which told the
stories that when Sadanji appeared as Togashi in ‘The Subscription List’ (Kanjinchō)
that he trembled during the customary speech about being a ‘Kaga Province
resident…’ (Kaga no kuni jūnin), that Kakitsu’s Kanpei in the third act of ‘The
Treasury of Loyal Retainers’ (Chūshingura) was, in front of the Emperor, very
modest in not pulling up and tucking in his formal hakama trousers, and that the
Court ladies all cried during the challenging part of ‘The Village School’ (Terakoya)
when Kotarō’s substitution occurred. I especially recall next that there was a
question about the adaptation of ‘The Subscription List’ (Kanjinchō). ”As I said
before, my sister used to learn Nagauta and a Nagauta master lived next door, and I
often used to hum Kanjinchō. So I read the articles related to this issue with huge
interest.

69
The “issue of the amendment” was regarding the amendment for the
performance in presence of the Emperor, said to have been done by Suematsu
Kenchoshi. Then someone criticized it in the Tokyo Nichi Nichi Shimbun newspaper.
I later figured out the critic was Fukuchi Ouchi. The focus of the argument was about
the scene of ‘Hōgan Onte wo Toritamai’ and Fukuchi says ‘this time it is amended as
“Hōgan Yagate te wo Torite”, but it's no problem to say “Onte”. ‘Onte’ doesn't mean
Benkei's hand and in this case modifies “toritamai”, which means “Ontorasetamai”
(an honorific way to describe a noble person's action）and these kinds of
examples are often seen in official documents of the Tokugawa era. To add to this,
with regard to the rhythm of ‘Yagate te wo Toritamai’ it doesn't sound refined at
all’ - this is what the newspaper insisted. There seems to have been explanations
from Suematsu, but my memory is vague. Anyway, “Onte” seems to have won
approval, and anyway it seems that there's no one sings “Yagate” today.” (Section
translation courtesy of Satsuki Hashida)

This sort of thing almost disappeared, though in this period this kind of adaptation
debate on revisionism was often repeated and flourished in the newspapers. For
example, in the seventh act (Gion Ichiriki Jaya) of ‘The Treasury of Loyal Retainers’
(Chūshingura) Okaru, indisposed in her kudoki entreaty says “upon the last moment
of the honourable old man’s untimely death, father (Yoichibei) is not condescending”.
Of course in the Edo period this sort of controversy was more often spoken of
publicly with all the more frequent criticism of Kyokutei Bakin with the impending
restoration of the amended substitution of “upon the last moment of the honourable
old man’s untimely death, father (Yoichibei) is troubled with condescension”. The
advocate for that choice I remember was in the article. My father on reading the
article said laughingly, ‘I don’t understand why that chap is bothered about this’. In
those days I was still growing up and thought similarly, ‘I don’t understand this chap
at all’. Furthermore it was an indisputable fact that this kind of influential debate
continued to be published.

Now when I look back and think about it I was certainly absorbed in what happened
after the start of Meiji era. The fortunes of the Shintomiza Theatre were transformed
when, in the two years after Meiji 11 (1878), it reached the height of its prosperity.
The prosperity of that theatre was dependant on the attention of every social class in
society being drawn to it. The voice of the Engeki Kairyō Theatre Reform was being
heard from everywhere. In the Meiji 19 (1886) the Government and the public
clarified what it meant to be a patron and supporter and the “Engeki Kairyō Kai
Theatre Reform Movement“ was conceived and developed. Its capability was very
confidently declared. Afterwards its task proved increasingly popular and in those
days many various opinions on reform which had been espoused by all manner of so
called intelligentsia were published. I previously brought up the topic of the
revisionism that was applied to the seventh act of ‘The Treasury of Loyal Retainers’
(Chūshingura) which was something that was afterwards employed across the
board. Evening parties were held at the Rokumeikan (Note: Meiji era Western style
building constructed in1883 for entertaining foreign diplomats and dignitaries) when
Theatre Reform was discussed and subsequently the number of articles published in
the newspapers blossomed. One thing though was that the characteristics of this era
remained unaffected by its association with this.

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What this meant for the crowd mentality I really didn’t know. From a youth to an adult
the cicada had not yet finished moulting (Translator’s note: idiom meaning ‘honing of
abilities’) and my intellect was still very immature. As a result I was not motivated to
undertake any contemplation of those discussions on reform. With the exception of
attending the crowded Torikuma Shibai as a low paid office clerk I took advantage of
being able to go with my father to the Grand Theatres. It was also my budding
ambition to become a playwright. In the beginning though I told my father I really
intended to become a doctor but on a friend’s advice gave this up. Then I had a new
idea thinking to become an artist which I gave up as I had no artistic ability. As was
usual I was obliged to finish primary school and then attend junior high school.
Besides in those days my father, like many parents, considered it hopeful that their
children didn’t intend becoming a “Mr. Government Official”. Such an opportunity
though was influenced by the Golden age of Clan favouritism. Younger supporters of
the Shōgun, in what had been called the Rebel Army, had been wounded and
destroyed. Although planning to do this it wasn’t as easy a possibility, and it was
unlikely that I would become a Civil Servant. In such circumstances my father and I
were unable to determine what my occupation should be and as I grew up I became
increasingly vague about it. Around then everyone was shouting about the arrival of
Engeki Kairyō Theatre Reform. I kept changing my mind but eventually formed an
opinion in discussions with my father that I would become a Kabuki playwright which
he agreed was the best option and immediately agreed to.

Father’s approval for this came easily as he liked the most prominent theatre
professional that I named and he approached the usual people, as well as Danjūrō,
amongst the Antiquarian Society membership. Soon one of the people who was
taking part in the fashionable Theatre Reform debate became interested and
approved of the seeming benefit to me of advocating my endorsement as someone
who was hoping to “honour the occupation of playwright”. As for this newly gained
influential source in such a matter he would also be my mentor unless he felt that
starting me publicly as a boy would not be accepted. Bearing in mind my eight years
of adolescence Danjūrō’s secretly thought and concluded “who is this person to be
writing such uninteresting plays like this?” However, at sixteen years old I had made
up my mind that I would willingly write plays with him. Whether this was fate being
kind to me I don’t know. I had already around that time left the instruction of Sadasan
at his Inhanya (printing plate shop) where I had been given ‘Kumagai’s Battle Camp’
(Kumagai Jinya) and ‘Kanpei’s Suicide’ (Kanpei no Hara-kiri) to look at and the Oo-
Yakko san of Fujima (in Yamato-chō) had, after a long illness, been lost to his
generation. The Nagauta teacher, Mochizuki Takiji san still lived in the Azuma
neighbourhood. Beyond a gate behind the alleyway the woman’s hairdresser’s
daughter, who was popular with her Tokiwazu, every night made a young man from
what was called the Wolf Gang (Ōren) growl.

Well then, when I wasn’t doing my school work I got stuck in to this with some
determination. I finished reading my older sister’s Jōruri and Nagauta practice book
(keikobon) and also borrowed Nagauta practice books from Tajiki san’s place. It was
unrealistic for me to read these indiscriminately. From the hairdresser’s daughter I
borrowed and read anew practice books for Tokiwazu Jōruri narrative for Kabuki
dance. I was also more troubled with reading play scripts as they weren’t easily
found. Today it’s different as articles on all the named play scripts are not published
as much. It was rare to find the olden day texts of plays that I asked for on loan in the

71
Downtown (Shitamachi) lending library and they couldn’t be found in the lending
library Uptown (Yamanote). Usually articles on the synopsis of the plots only
appeared in the “Kabuki News” (Kabuki Shinpō). The plays I’ve named that really
had articles written about them were, in their manner of writing, really difficult to
understand. I asked my father who of course also didn’t understand. I knew that my
circumstances were such that there wasn’t anyone else who would understand.

Inevitably, I made up my mind to read the scripts of a foreign country. Around that
time I went to the British Embassy, which was then still known as the Legation, and
imposed myself on the Secretary Mr. William George Aston in his room. I was at the
time occasionally babysitting Mr’ Aston’s children. He had considerable
understanding of Japanese literature. However Mr. Aston had brought into the
Legation with him the scripts of various foreign plays. He had brought the complete
works of Shakespeare though I doubted, even though they were there, that I would
read them. So Mr. Aston, who knew the scripts of the various plays, gave me
readings. After all it was just the summary that I simply wanted to hear and as a
consequence, based on that, I didn’t really end up appreciating the technique of
playwriting.

Though I didn’t appreciate the techniques of playwriting from just listening it was
certainly kind of him and I certainly often went to his room to listen to and discuss
drama. The following summer, July if I remember correctly, I went as usual to visit
him when Mr. Aston, laughing, said ‘similarly you don’t know about this person’s
publications’ and showed me five books containing six volumes in temporary
bindings which had been published. They, the Kawatake Mokuami script series, had
been published as articles by the Ginza’s Kabuki Shinpō (Kabuki News) Company.
They covered ‘Nakamitsu’ (see Part 7 for a synopsis), ‘Four Thousand Ryō‘
(Yonsenryō*) and ‘Kagatobi’. When I went I had no idea that they had been
successively published and had been delivered from a Ginza bookstore. I leapt for
joy and straight away started going to him and borrowing them so that I could indulge
myself by reading them.

*Translator’s note: aka Shisenryō Koban Umenoha - In this play loosely based on a
true incident, two men, one a masterless samurai, the other a seasoned thief, break
into the treasury of the Shōgunate and steal the immense sum of four thousand gold
coins. Though the samurai tries to use the money to support a normal life by starting
a loan business, the other wastes his money gambling and resorts to extorting
money from his former partner. The enormity of their crime makes it impossible to
keep it secret and they are soon caught. Written by Kawatake Mokuami, this play
caused a sensation in its day for its realistic depiction of an Edo period jail.
http://www.eg-gm.jp/e_guide/eng_showtimes/eng_shinbashi.html

I was surprised to see and read them, really surprised. That these plays had been
written was such a great thing I thought. That said, I didn’t understand at all about
the intermittent preparation and use of musical instruments and accompaniment.
Never before had I had occasion to read ‘Crossroads at Ten Bells on a Frosty Night’
(Shimoyo no Kane) while still looking after his children. In those circumstances it was
likely that I became too engrossed and read too much being very careful at the time
to examine them. That I didn’t understand much was abundantly clear. For example
such things as, “with the rising of the curtain there is a section of the Sange Sange*

72
musical accompaniment”, “musical accompaniment of hymns of praise to Jizō” and
“with the rising of the curtain there is a section of Shiro (white) musical
accompaniment” which I really didn’t understand. As I was very slow to understand I
believed that I would not be able to write plays as a result; something which really
shocked me. One by one I studied these things in earnest.

Today I am a playwright writing books about plays and studying drama. I dare say
that “Sange Sange” and “songs of praise to Jizō” helped. It seems that I examined
less back then which meant that I was unable to earnestly write about things I didn’t
know about. On a practical note the theatres really did produce that sort of narration.
To summarise, how many years did I make my livelihood as a stage assistant
(kurogo) in the dressing rooms, something that as a tradition I did as I was unable to
write articles about plays I’ve named. This was something which was conferred on
me by my relationship with that puppet master. It was from Hokama (Translator’s
note: 外間, Hokama, probably a nickname for Danjūrō) that I began to mature in my
understanding of those deeply held theories he unfairly kept secret. What more of a
scholar and genius could he be? I couldn’t help but increasingly develop as a
“theatre professional” and how much more was I able to increasingly write about the
plays he talked about? I did harbour some doubts about those things such as “Sange
sange” and “songs of praise to Jizō” though after some time I suddenly understood a
little.

When I read extensively in order to understand I ended up getting more lost so I
increasingly found myself going to see my patron. So that I might be able to
overcome this problem and begin to transform my understanding I discussed things
with my father. From this what was taking place among that generation gradually and
increasingly become apparent. About the “Theatre Reform Movement” it was said
that people didn’t write about the scripts of the plays that I’ve named and that what
they discussed was what they knew more about; the preparation of musical
instruments and accompaniment. Maybe somehow the methods used in the
theatres, those techniques that were handed down, became accepted though among
the same generation what was accomplished was more than was expected. In those
circumstances I was concerned that I would be best placed studying with my father.
This I was told, and indeed adjusted to, whereby I would continue to learn how to
write plays in circumstances which, until that point, I had struggled bravely to accept
and continue with so that I didn’t lose out.

Meiji 21 (1888), it was a Sunday (Translator’s Note: probably Sunday July 22nd, as
the eruption of Mount Bandai took place on Sunday July 15th of that year) and I had
reached seventeen years and seven months old in my high clogs. The group I was
with consisted of my mother, aunt, older sister and four gentlemen friends. I was
visiting the Ichimuraza Theatre. Until now this narrative has been entirely and
devotedly concerned with the Shintomiza Theatre! Then the subject was about the
experience of the Chitoseza Theatre and then the Harukiza Theatre! However, by
the way, until now there hasn’t been much point in saying anything about my
experience of the Ichimuraza Theatre.

Ichimuraza historical marker, Saruwaka-chō, Tōkyō

In 1882 (Meiji 15) the Ichimuraza Theatre was located in the so called ‘ni-chōme’
(Shitaya Nichō-machi, Theatre Street), and was the first theatre of the three pre-
eminent theatres of Edo, the Edosanza (Nakamuraza, Ichimuraza, Moritaza) which
until 1892 (Meiji 25) had been located elsewhere. Of course, in general this
building’s construction had been com-p-lete-ly changed! Anyway it stayed on for a
long time in the old Saruwaka machi in the Asakusa district and, as rumour now has
it, was rather good at spin since for old Edo’s various dear and dignified visitors its
impact evoked an emotional response, just like when one receives a new gift!

Saruwaka-chō in Asakusa, circa 1843-1856
The Edosanza from left to right: Nakamuraza, Ichimuraza and the Moritaza

74
This really is my memory of the Ichimuraza Theatre – of the previous generation’s
Nakamura Shikan IV (Nakamura Utaemon V’s father) who was troupe leader
(zagashira) and leading actor, Nakamura Fukusuke IV (the current Nakamura
Utaemon V), Kataoka Gadō III (the current Kataoka Gadō IV’s father) the previous
generation’s Ichikawa Gonjūrō, Seki Sanjūrō IV (the current Seki Sanjūrō V’s father)
and so on. I’m afraid my recollection of their faces is blurred. Though when all was
said and done the refined features of Gadō and Gonjūrō were, luckily, almost alike
though their popularity as two star actors was unfortunately a matter of dispute.
What's more, like Fukusuke, doing that sort of work those two were sensationally
good value actors for young people and were lauded publicly as the best amongst
the best. In the circumstances the actors’ guild (Yagō) Shinkomaya’s captivating
reputation was, in Tōkyō, widely talked about. In my memory the climax of Danjūrō’s
popular performances were his correctly multi layered depiction of Princess Yaegaki,
the dutiful Katsuyori in Honchō Nijūshikō, Iwafuji, and the timely business of Onoe in
Kagamiyama!

However, if speaking generally, nowadays its nigh on impossible to procure
advantageously positioned land in Saruwaka machi.

Saruwaka machi historical marker, Tōkyō

The layout of the district (machi) had completely changed since the earthquake
disaster. At around this time the Ichimuraza Theatre gradually pulled out of the
excellent Asakusa district’s Umamichi-chō and the similarly narrowly shaped Ameya
Yoko-chō (Candy Street) locations, a questionable act resulting in a lot of unsuitably
grand positioning. Not at all intending to completely set a trend for its demise I was
alas at the Bunrakuza puppet plays just a bystander. The owner of Ichimuraza
Theatre Morita Kan’ya, whose theatrical reputation was well known, was concerned
as was Nakamura Zenshirō who, historically speaking, was one star actor employed
amongst others on the stage with the performance ability most like that of Fukusuke,
Gadō and Konjurō. So it was the poor location that was an obstruction to the
performances. What’s more, quite frankly, didn’t the results seem disappointing at
the time?

But then the regulations concerning this location were also reminiscent of prior
circumstances when the street’s theatre owners were inevitably taxed on their capital
assets, even if the profit approximated to only a small amount. It was difficult and
thought severe to hear all about his theatre seemingly being driven to ruin because
of Bandō Kakitsu I’s interest rate liability. On top of which there was perhaps the bias
placed on the location. At that time Asakusa Public Park was, without a doubt, also a

75
flourishing principal garden and by had by no means become like that for any
particular reason. It was said just afterwards that in the circumstances the
Ichimuraza Theatre’s foothold near Asakusa Public Park drew visitors who, even
though it was an inferior location, felt that they had an advantage. That wasn’t really
true. And everyone agreed that there was some difficulty because of the distance to
the Ichimuraza Theatre.

At the time we went in a car to get to the distant Ichimuraza Theatre. The four of us
walked together from Koji-machi District’s Motozono-chō Street to Kanda’s
Manseibashi Bridge. It was a hot day around mid-July as we travelled along the full
length of Kudanzaka slope and suddenly approaching Ogawa-machi District we got
off. Alas, miserably, there was sweat oozing out through the brow of my hat. From
Manseibashi Bridge we rode in a horse drawn tram (tetsudō basha) towards Ueno
where we stopped and then, after swapping over at the interchange, we travelled in
another horse drawn tram towards Asakusa. Rickshaw men were readying
themselves by quickly gathering into a crowd though the negligible cost for a
carriage (basha) ride from there to Asakusa was of no concern. From Ueno to
Asakusa for one district was two sen. There was also a lot of competition between
the rickshaw men and the horse drawn tram so we took advantage of the little two
sen discount that there was for vehicle passengers for the whole journey from Ueno
to Asakusa though because of this the cost for a horse drawn basha tram was
thought inferior. Mother was told that for two people to ride in one vehicle driving
along the road it was five sen a piece which, pleasingly, encouraged the rickshaw
men. At the Kaminarimon Gate we got off and walked along Nakamise-dōri, the
street leading into the temple precincts and we worshipped at the statue of
Kwannon, Goddess of Mercy at Sensō-ji Temple. As usual, after that, we zigzagged
along the alleyway (yoko-chō) towards the Ichimuraza Theatre’s façade.

Because till then I wasn’t aware of cost I then had to calculate the payment. The
group entered Yabu soba noodle restaurant in Asakusa in front of the Kaminarimon
Gate of Sensō-ji the cost of which would as usual, it was hoped, again be included in
the price of a cheap ticket to see the performance in which, amongst others, Shikan,
Fukusuke, Gadō, and Konjūrō were appearing. The artists’ brochure listed Ichikawa
Yaozō VII (the current Ichikawa Chusha VII) as the leading principle actor, who
played alongside Ichikawa Sumizō V, Ichikawa Shinzō V, Nakamura Dengorō III,
Arashi Wasaburō II (later Arashi Rikan IV), Nakamura Kangorō XII (later Nakamura
Nakazō IV) in the play Sendai, as well as Nakamura Tsuruzō II, and Iwai
Matsunosuke IV and so on. The first Kabuki play was ‘Imoseyama, an example of
womanly virtue’ (Imoseyama) and then an audio tape of ‘A Shank's Mare’
(Hizakurige) a one act play which was unusually played repeatedly during the
intervals and then second in the programme Matsunosuke in ‘Teremen’.

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On this issue of the pulley system used with the snake necked woman (rokuro kubi)
in ‘Teremen’, I wasn’t much interested nor attracted by it. I was entirely and greatly
delighted with ‘Imoseyama’ and ‘Hizakurige’. Before that I had looked for my
favourites Danjūrō and Kikugorō as the heartfelt characters Koganosuke and Omiwa
from the play Imoseyama, their performance allowing me to be as deeply moved as I
could have been. From the travel dance (michiyuki) of the Yoshino River
(Yoshinogawa), act III, scene 2 of Imoseyama, to the composed piece the Palace on
Mount Mikasayama (Mikasayama Goten), act IV scene 3, I held my breath, staring
hard at the stage. And then, at the same time, because this very excellent play
‘Imoseyama’ evoked deep emotions for Koganosuke and Omiwa it was considered
by the public that this great man (Danjūrō) had achieved and even exceeded their
greatest expectations. Today in regards to his performance in the extraordinary
masterpiece ‘Imoseyama’ whether or not he is truly considered such a great
performer he is the subject of unconditional praise and great admiration. It is
recognised that he was a performer who had reached the peak of his abilities. I had
great admiration for the performance of the masterpiece ‘Imoseyama’ when Omiwa’s
heartfelt emotions were displayed when once during my feverish note taking on the
play I was suddenly seized again by a powerful urge and composed a beautiful little
phrase ‘burst into flames‘. In the middle of the many dirt floor boxes (doma) the noise
of the handheld fans of youthful neighbourhoods sounded, ‘zaa…’ I was expectantly
determined and pledged to myself then that I would become another playwright.
Near the Ichimuraza Theatre in Motochi we went into the entertainment district’s
cheap soba noodle restaurant called Yabu which today, because I’m beyond middle
aged and have a household, I’m not allowed to go anymore, though it still remains
strong in my memory. Anyway I’d probably not get my seat. Though I’ve forgotten
many events during my entire lifetime this one is deeply etched on my memory and
has had an unbelievably potent and deeply profound effect on me.

As well new productions the story of the two characters Yajirōbē and Kitahachi in
‘Hizakurige’ sometimes linger clearly in my memory. The role of Yajirōbē was played
by Nakamura Tsuruzō and Kitahachi by Nakamura Dengorō. Nowadays amongst the
many other actors their example and similarly difficult style of acting is emulated by
everyone, especially that of the genial and innately comic actor Tsuruzō. From the
mysteriously puffed like eyelids under his face I could see that he was one of those
who, though he carried on with his comic wit, to the very end his style of acting was
cl-ea-rly that of a refined Kabuki actor, even though he also effortlessly appeared a
little bit mischievous and funny. Nakamura Nakazō III was Tsuruzō’s master who in
the beginning employed Nakamura Ganya. Tsuruzō was also the name of a previous
late great master, and it can be said with confidence that I really understood having
someone masterfully playing a type of role referred to as Edo style clowning.
Certainly that Yajirōbē was the correct and ideal Yajirōbē. I continued to thoroughly
enjoy the role without any concern. Then again for much longer I think I continued to
be engrossed and in a state of amazement and I wrote to Tsuruzō nineteen times
with some success with the appearance of ten replies. Also after that I frequently
saw the play ‘A Shank’s Mare’ (Hizakurige) seeing more of Tsuruzō’s Yajirōbē
though coincidentally a meeting with him didn’t take place. The following year at the
Nakamuraza Theatre in Torigoe-chō Street in Asakusa he was chosen to play
Sukehei and Kōbei in the drama ‘Igagoe’.

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Nakamuraza historical site marker, Saruwaka-chō, Tōkyō

It was an intimately packed house and I needed my spectacles to see Sukehei.
Thankfully seeing Kōbei was not so much effort. Second was the play ‘Kamiyui
Shinza’ with landlord Chōbei’s affair, and I found out that Nakazō was duplicating the
ascribed role of master Zempachi from Shinza the Barber (Kamiyui Shinza). What’s
more at that time he was charming and intended to, and would, progress (in his
acting career) by means of a steely determination. He was worthy playing in the
company’s rendition of the play Shinza. After all he probably wasn’t just a single
comedy piece actor. To that extent isn’t the significance of comedy that it’s also
difficult to perform. Even now I continue to be an admirer of him as a performer.
However in April 1890 Tsuruzō died. In the past he was an extremely diligent
character though my own childhood decision to perform as an actor didn’t end up as
my karma! From an early age he habitually acted in plays and took pride in acting.
Though astonishingly he eventually, amongst other things, also prepared for,
became, and continued to practice as a lawyer.

Dengorō later went down to Ōsaka which, interestingly, Nakamura Ganjirō I
approved of. Dengorō had performed for one troupe for a long time in the previous
ten years during which a generation had passed. I wondered what kind of strange
unknown acting might be come to light from going down to Ōsaka. My recollection of
Dengorō’s performance bookings of the previous forty years wasn’t disagreeable.
Back in the day Nakamura Sagisuke II (Trans note: later Nakamura Dengorō III) was
also a disciple of Nakazō. Something which many people at the time celebrated in a
friendly and open hearted manner. I can record in this documentary of the theatre’s
long history that Dengorō later played Kōmori Yasu in Scar Faced Yosa (Kirare
Yosa). The assignment of roles in Genjidana (Act III of Kirare Yosa) were
Gennosuke as Otomi, the previous generation’s Bandō Kakitsu I as Yosarō, and
Ichikawa Kūzō III (later Ichikawa Danzō VII) as Tazaemon. The Ichimuraza Theatre’s
precious records were then available and I viewed them on an inexact date, but
there amongst them was the master transcript of Dengorō’s Kōmori Yasu. Onoe
Matsusuke IV was still yet of a different but better kind of style. Matsusuke’s Kōmori
Yasu was-more-subdued. From beginning to end, though it was said that this was an
unpleasant thing, there was his soft, coaxing voice. Tsuruzō and Dengorō both said
it was unfortunate and that an actor’s style shouldn’t be like this. Later I’ll write about
Shinzō.

At this time I went in through the theatre entrance. My mother was also ushered in
and the usher took a little fruit offered to him as a gift. We contentedly gave perhaps

78
between approximately fifty sen to one yen to others giving these tips with the
assurance of our favours. In those days it was inexpensive because at the most the
cost for the fruit was a very reasonable fifteen to twenty sen, and it was customary
that it was like that very much up until about the middle of the Meiji era (Translator’s
note: approximately 1890), though we continued to purchase it after this time. In the
future too I would frequently and routinely go through the visitor’s entrance. I didn’t
see many performances though, as was our custom, we never accepted any favours
from the usher.

On the 15th July (1888) Iwashiro’s Bandai Mountain north of Edo-Tōkyō exploded
and I can say that we were afraid of this cataclysmic event and in the circumstances
hoped to be prepared. It was reported that as a result of the violence of the eruption
that approximately five hundred people were left dead stirring the public’s attention.
Acknowledging this the Tenmei period‘s Mount Asama eruption north of Edo was
dramatised just afterwards with the ‘Famous Asama’ slide show with lanterns
(utsushi-e). Torigoe’s Ichimuraza Theatre used this as a pretext to announce an
October performance of a five act play, a period piece written as a result by the
author Mokuami which was performed by use of a ‘slide show by magic lantern’
(utsushi-e), a principle gamble which I thought evaporated. Previously the
Shintomiza Theatre’s Furukawa Shinsui (Morita Kan’ya XII) wrote and performed a
Kabuki play called ‘Sinking Steamship in Kushu Bay’ (Sanpu goko utsusu gento).
Because of this at the time much was made of the type of performance called a
magic lamp show which was photographed. The first play was ‘Futaba Gunki’, with
the roles assigned to Danjūrō as Kumagai, Kikugorō as Atsumori and Midaroku, and
Fukusuke (Ōsaka’s Nakamura Baigyoku II) as Sagami.

The second play on the programme was Kikugorō’s Mount Asama Eruption (Asama
Yama Funka) where Izuya Hatsuzō (Kikugorō), a bookkeeper for the shop Shinano
Ya, goes on a journey, leading and travelling with his daughter Onatsu (Iwai
Matsunosuke IV). They both leave home on a journey to the town of Komoro in the
kingdom of Shinshū (current day Nagano Prefecture) and on route run into the
eruption of Asama. In the second scene the full eruption appeared on stage and was
very popular because of the large scale and marvellous stage scenery that opened
to view and what’s more it captivated my heart. The third act took place in Hatsuzō’s
house. Because of the trouble caused by the eruption the daughter’s condition
seriously deteriorates and all hope is lost, Hatsuzō is dejected, and because of what
has happened they return to the house in Edo. At his father’s house Hatsuzō and his
wife are talking about the eruption, they are anxious about their safety. It’s the
evening of the 13th day of the Festival of Lanterns (Urabon). Worryingly not even the
sound of a single insect could be heard. The wife (played by Bandō Shūchō II)
leaves through the gate and discovers that the firebreak is burning. As shadows
sweepingly flicker Hatsuzō’s outline is visible and smoke appears along the street
coming from the west placing them in a difficult position. I was moved because of the
spectacle but hid my emotions.

Certainly, even though I can potentially depend on my temporary authority to speak
on Kabuki’s entire genre, I didn’t fully digest this scene. Later on this spectacular
third act scene didn’t appear again, though for how long this state of affairs
continued I don’t know. By the way, this scene was borrowed when I previously
wrote the play ‘Love Suicide at Minowa’ (Minowa no Shinjū). In the play the third act

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is located at the Minowa family farm. There is little time to get out through the door
as the fire break is burning. The silhouette of Fujieda Geki, wearing a white morning
kimono (katabira), can be seen through the smoke in the nearby courtyard. In the
space of twenty odd years I have underrated the performances that took place at the
Nakamuraza Theatre for which I continue to remain indebted. In the next part of this
tale I’ll make a confession.

On stage in March the following year, Meiji 22 (1889), two actors, Ichikawa Arajirō I
and Ōtani Monzō III, were promoted to leading nadai actors. The name of Ōtani
Monzō III was changed to Otani Bajū III. They both wore identical Garayuki snow
pattern kimonos. The people they worked for, similarly attired, all lined up alongside
them on stage. As usual the convention for the Rakugo storytelling of the “Sacred
Sake bottles” (Omiki Dokkuri) was used along with sacred sake bottles lined up on
stage.

At the time actors were promoted to Nadai with extraordinary seriousness as was the
case with the promotion of Monzō III and Arajirō I. In keeping with their many years
of service this was done on a stage constructed from Japanese Hinoki Cypress
wood (Hinoki Butai). Arajirō I’s promotion was as successor, and for his extensive
service, to his master of the early years of the Meiji period, Bandō Hikosaburō V. It
wasn’t easy being permitted to be promoted to Nadai. The following year, Meiji 23
(1890), Onoe Kōzō II was promoted to Nadai. As a consequence the promotion to
Nadai of the people I’ve mentioned brought them great honour. At the time becoming
Nadai for these actors was appropriate though there was much society gossip about
their ranking. Certainly, in the circumstances promotion to Nadai was done once
actors had worked for maybe three to five years, how long I’m not certain about. I
thought that it wasn’t done carelessly. In that succession, once an actor had been
promoted upwards to Nadai they experienced the pressure weighing down on them
which forced them to become more mature actors. It wasn’t insignificant that Nadai
actors had attendants that served them and brought them their zōri sandals and had
tea house women and others working for them.

The degree of complexity that came with the practice of being promoted to Nadai
gradually lessened. After Meiji 30 (1897) the circumstances surrounding actors
becoming new Nadai became increasingly worrisome, a situation which continued
until after the advent of the Taishō era. Naturally, if promotion to Nadai were easy
then the consequences would be that there would be a proliferation of Nadai actors
to the extent that the authority accompanying the honour afforded to Nadai actors
would lessen. The Nadai actors of today who are from the olden days often served in
junior positions. Marvellous Nadai actors give great satisfaction and are magnificent.
There weren’t really very many changes made from the olden days for the junior
Nadai actors whose names have been mentioned. Given the situation, it was
definitely felt necessary and essential to establish classifications, especially for
Nadai actors and junior Nadai. There was an increasingly random proliferation of
Nadai actors and as a consequence Actors’ Associations were established to
represent them. One aim was to increase the number of Provincial tours they should
do. Anyway, the situation was becoming such that most of those that were being
accepted on stage were definitely like that. Nadai actors, it was said, were springing
up in clusters and that they were Nadai actors in name but not in reality. It couldn’t
be helped but to feel that the situation was somewhat foolish. Nevertheless this
continued to happen in a way that was unregulated and in this way excessive
numbers of Nadai actors appeared in increasing numbers. The responsibility for this

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was put down to a variety of reasons. Anyway, they wouldn’t have joined the ranks of
Nadai if there weren’t. Some actors felt the same that they themselves didn’t
understand and didn’t know what the outcome would be. This is a proverb from the
olden days, ‘if a wild goose is flying, people of no worth are soaring’. It’s not known if
this would help stop this practice.

That year Meiji 22 (1889) in July ‘The Austerities of the Priest Mongaku at Nachi
Falls Deep in the Mountains’ (Nachi no Miyama Chikai no Mongaku) by Takeshiba
Kisui was listed at the Nakamuraza Theatre…

Kabuki scene of the Priest Mongaku doing penance under the rushing Nachi waterfall. After mistakenly beheading his beloved,
the beauty Kesa Gozen, while attempting to kill her husband, the warrior Endo Morito renounced his evil ways and became a
Buddhist monk. He prayed for twenty-one days under the icy waterfall, only surviving with divine assistance. Here, he clings to
a rock at left as three deities come to help him. In the centre, Fudo Myōō appears in a ring of flames, holding a sword to strike
down non-believers and a rope to bind them. He is accompanied by his heavenly attendants, Kongara doji on the left and
Seitaka doji on his right. Ichikawa Danjūrō appears as both Mongaku and Fudo Myōō. By Kunichika http://www.fujiarts.com/cgi-
bin/item.pl?item=271591

The play ‘The Priest Mongaku’s Subscription List’ (Mongaku Kanjinchō), the work of
the nonprofessional dramatist Yoda Gakkai, was said to have been based on this
(Kisui’s) story.

Furthermore it was said that the story was adapted unofficially. I remember that
Gakkai gave vent to his indignation in remarks that appeared the newspapers,
saying that amongst other things permission to adapt the story was given but that the
form used was substandard or possibly that consent wasn’t given for the adaptation
of the whole thing front to back. Or that it was quite possible that this work was
something distinctly and entirely different and that it was his dearest wish that the
truth be known as a consequence of the dispute. At the time, right from the start, I
couldn’t have cared less about this news and that taking it seriously or considering
any more of the this and that of the dispute wasn’t necessary. As usual, other people
said, this difference of opinion was forgotten. Although an outsider, until it was
reviewed and various changes and cuts were made, his script was to a certain extent
still used on stage. I suppose that maybe it wasn’t until ‘A New Opening in the
Umeda Shrine Fence’ (Shinkaijō Umeda no Kami Gaki) by Kawajiri Hōshin (aka
Kawajiri Hōkin) was performed at the Nakamuraza Theatre in January of (Meiji) 21
(1888) that things began to change.

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It was said that Mokuami’s work ‘Money takes care of Everything’ (Ningen Banji
Kane no Yononaka), based on Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s original work of comedy
“Money” was given to him by the independent scholar Fukuchi Ōchi. However it was
only the plotline that he was given though Ōchi did not personally write down the
reason for this, though he did personally say that he was responsible for the format
of some of the script. To a certain extent this was adopted for the stage but this was
the start of the production of this type of second class scripts. Gakkai collaborated
with Kawajiri Hōshin on ‘Collection of Excellent and Admirable Yoshino Poems‘
(Yoshino Shūi Meika no Homare), ‘The Taikō Toyotomi Hideyoshi Breaking the Seal’
(Toyotomi Taikō Reppōsaku), ‘Chronicle of Stories of the Later Noble Family Siblings
of Kusunoki Masashige’ (Shūi Gonichi Renshi no Kusunoki) which were all officially
classed as Katsureki living history plays. At the time the controversies and the
realisation of those plays was an area of study in which the Engeki Kairyō Theatre
Reform movement led the way.

In the fourth act of Mongaku Ichikawa Danjūrō IX’s Mongaku forces his way into the
old Imperial Palace and reads aloud the Temple Subscription List (Kanjinchō). Three
people, keepers of the Imperial archives, are alerted to what is happening.
Surrounded by those three people, who grab him, Mongaku stands up and turns
while still reading. The three were played by the actors Ichikawa Hyakuzō VII,
Ichikawa Shinzō V, and Nakamura Kangorō XII. The form of the standing turn was
similar to, and a variation of, a turning grab used in a Jūdo match. The audience was
thrilled.

As a consequence Kangorō actually sprained his foot, and it was rumoured that
Shinzō’s toes were injured. While I was watching I became really quite scared.
Anyway, all at the same time it seemed at first that there were four people fighting,
throwing, pushing, grabbing and pulling, and falling. Whenever some fell and the
stage was hit by their bodies it made a noisy thudding sound. During a pause in the
proceedings the example of Danjūrō’s famous style came across clearly as his voice
could be heard rising as he read the Subscription List. After that scene was over it
would appear that my underclothes were accidentally soaking wet, bathed in sweat.

The middle act was ‘The Shōgun’s Blind Envoy’ (Torime no Jōshi – the synopsis of
which is very similar to Tamamo Mae) featuring Ichikawa Sadanji I. I remember that
the second act which was due to have been ‘Benten Kozō and His Gang of Thieves’

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(Benten Kozō) featuring Onoe Kikugorō V was, as a result of Kikugorō suddenly
falling ill, replaced by the pawnshop scene of ‘The Scandal of the Love of Osome
and Hisamatsu’ (Osome Hisamatsu). Danjūrō had a short time to prepare for his
appearance as Zenroku for the pawnshop scene. Zenroku’s accomplice Matsuya
Gen’uemon was played by Ichikawa Sadanji I, Yamagaya Seibei by Nakamura
Shikan IV, the Aburaya pawn shop widow by Bandō Shūchō II, Tasaburō by
Tsurumatsu, Oito by Nakamura Masajirō III, Osome by Onoe Einosuke I, and
Hisamatsu by Shijirō. Previously Nakamura Tsuruzō II had worked hard in the role of
the maid servant of the Aburaya pawnshop. Originally Danjūrō worked hard in that
role. In previous years he had been very popular and famed for his interpretation of
the role of Ōtsuka Hikiroku in ‘Hakkenden’. Generally speaking Hikiroku is a
magistrate who can’t help but behave with considerable dignity; the same essential
qualities, it can be said, that were also just right for Danjūrō but which didn’t bear a
resemblance to the character of the head clerk of the pawnshop. With the sort of
dignified countenance that Danjūrō had who else would be able to play the part of
Hikiroku? He managed to captivate the general interest of the public, something
which it seemed that he was naturally aiming for when performing at the local
theatres.

Danjūrō increasingly performed as Zenroku, transforming the role with a new and
different performance structure. This was something which I had been hoping for but
was in the event disappointed. Till then Danjūrō’s speech and gestures bore a
resemblance to those of the Torikuma Shibai but though familiar with his dark
Subscription List his Zenroku didn’t prove to be very different. It seemed that all the
performances of Katsureki historical Kabuki plays were the same and as he already
had a loyal fan base he kept to this same form. However, even though he kept to the
same fixed form, his Hikiroku was certainly played with skill. His remark ‘Hmmm…
…the primary aim, if possible, is to know that one’s heart is increasingly torn to
pieces and being weary of liking the same old Zenroku was completely OK’, is one
that remains in my mind. It was a skilful revision of what would otherwise have been
insincere remarks.

Later on I saw Kikugorō’s Zenroku at the Kabuki which he performed with sincerity.
Though right at the beginning, when I first saw him, he was sort of messing around
though Danjūrō’s performances were unrelentingly serious. At this performance,
when Danjūrō wasn’t performing the role of Zenroku, he was personable but didn’t
mess around at all. He undertook the role with the utmost determination whilst the
other side of his character, already mentioned, was very humorous. His deadly
seriousness and his wit were both things that happened naturally. Notwithstanding
Tsuruzō’s performances as the maid servant of the Aburaya pawnshop in Osome
and Hisamatsu Danjūrō performed with great skill. I still recall seeing him on one
occasion when he threw away the faded kimono he had worn as Zenroku, whilst
playing the shamisen and singing ‘Zenroku san, this is goodbye’ as he turned
towards me holding up his maedare under apron which he was wearing underneath
the kimono. I also liked Tsurumatsu’s Tasaburō.

On this occasion in the intermission between the first act ‘Mongaku’ and the middle
act ‘The Shōgun’s Blind Envoy’ (Torime no Jōshi) I accompanied my father to
Danjūrō’s room. Danjūrō was appearing in the middle act as the widow Senju and
was putting on make-up while he was chatting with my father. In the time between

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playing Mongaku and then Zenroku Danjūrō was performing in an onnagata role (as
the widow Senju) and was a little stressed. Even with all that going on we were all
laughing. I shut up as I stared at the make-up being applied which, unexpectedly,
seemed to be a really easy thing to do. Though the widow’s role was that of a mature
woman, the special make-up that was essential for this had the effect of making him
appear to be much more beautiful. His face he painted whitish, dusting it with both
hands in order to achieve the right effect, and as I recall, I think he gently brushed
his face three times and was transformed. Then, with his finger tip, he repeatedly
applied colour to his front teeth. I remember that he applied a little paint to his lips to
complete the transformation. He looked away from the dresser and immediately
called for his costume. Astonished and recovering from sitting down rather too
quickly, I patiently stared at the appearance of his face. His face was totally different,
really looking like a woman. Without too much face powder his lightly painted face
was recognisable as that of Danjūrō. I felt a little apprehensive as he went off to the
stage like this, appearing so different as a woman. My father and I both stood up and
left and before long the curtain was drawn to reveal Danjūrō on stage. Certainly he
was elegant in his appearance as the samurai’s widow. I was again astonished.

Of course the effect was even more enhanced by the wig and the costume. The
outward appearance of his face made his appearance on stage look natural. It was
said that his appearance was that of a handsome woman and that the change was
considered sensational. After this, it should be said that, Danjūrō was Kikugorō’s
exact opposite. The unusual look of his face was very easily and quickly made up
but the speed and ease with which this was done was not the single redeeming
feature but, as one would expect, was remarkable nonetheless. Even now, after
such a long time, I feel duty-bound in my admiration for him.

*Translator’s Note: Literally ‘Turnip Gossip’. Kabuza was suggested as the name for
the new theatre but Kabu means daikon or turnip, an inauspicious name for a Kabuki
Theatre as bad actors are known as daikon – see Kido’s comments below

In November that year (1889) the opening ceremony for the new Kabukiza Theatre
took place. I remember that beforehand the plot of land on which the Kabukiza
Theatre was built was vacant. Occasionally on the plot of land there would be a
tournament or a circus, all show business events. On this plot of land, it was said, a
new large theatre structure was going to be built. Rumours that were circulating
widely about this were discussed a lot between me and a group of friends who were
Kabuki aficionados. It wasn’t at that point clear what the name of the theatre would
be. It was said that it could possibly be called the Kabukiza, or maybe the Kabuza.
However Kabuza, which had been suggested as the name for the new theatre, was
also an insult as Kabu means daikon or big turnip, an inauspicious name for a
Kabuki Theatre as it is also an insult. Eventually the vacant land was enclosed by
wooden fencing and in the space where the Kabukiza Theatre was due to be
constructed large hoardings were put up and at around that time it was made clear
that the name of the theatre would be the Kabukiza. At that time I was making my
way through Tsukiji to Furitsu Junior High School and every day, without exception, I
passed by the front of the construction yard. In view of being a theatre goer it was of
some interest to me. Every day the construction work could be seen gradually
progressing. As the deadline for the date of completion approached the rumours
circulating in the newspapers didn’t dwindle; that the theatre structure that was being
built would be especially splendid, what kind of actors would be appearing on stage?
What their names would be could be anyone’s guess, and what would be the name
of the person who would be designated as (zagashira), the boss of the theatre?
Alongside which many vague suggestions and opinionated guesses were frequently
published which livened things up; amongst these questions and rumours was that
one way or another the head of the theatre was to be Chiba Katsugorō, and that the
boss of the Shintomiza Theatre Morita Kan’ya XII had already seen a report that said
something similar. Even though nothing was actually known for sure I was naturally
secretive about these things. Newspaper articles considered wide-ranging public
rumours. In the circumstances the Shintomiza Theatre was no distance at all from
Kobiki-chō Street where the new Grand Theatre was being built. This brought with it
the fear that it would become a great rival to the Shintomiza Theatre. Consequently
Morita Kan’ya planned counter measures and in collaboration with the masters of the
three theatres, the Nakamuraza, Ichimuraza and Chitoseza Theatres, formed one
alliance of all four theatres which won over the remaining master actors resident in
Tōkyō. For the next five years they said the major actors had agreed, to some
derision, to increase the number of performances produced but that they would only
work at these four theatres. It appeared that in this way they were attempting to taunt
the new Kabukiza Theatre. Every day I passed by Kobiki-chō Street near to where
they were putting up the long awaited theatre which, growing day by day, would

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eventually change the situation, something I hoped wasn’t going to bring a feeling of
misfortune.

However the situation in the world of the theatre was changing. As a group we,
seventeen and eighteen year olds alike, thought that there would be an authorized
official draft text sent out to but this didn’t happen. With other unusual issues that we
spoke about in our group the situation that unfolded was confusing; Ichikawa
Danjūrō IX, Onoe Kikugorō V, and Ichikawa Sadanji I are going to be starting at the
Kabukiza Theatre, Nakamura Fukusuke III, Bandō Kakitsu I, Onoe Matsusuke IV,
Ichikawa Kodanji V, and Sawamura Gennosuke IV are all going to be gathering
together to work there. As the opening ceremony to launch the theatre took place in
the middle of November it went off without a hitch. The fragile four theatre alliance
found itself in difficulty and broke up. The new opening performance play was
Mokuami’s work, ‘The Story of Kōmon: A Lecture for Youth’ (Kōmon ki Osana
Kōshaku), which had been revised and supplemented by the amateur playwright and
scholar Fukuchi Ōchi.

From right to left, Ichikawa Shinjūrō III (1866-1929), Onoe Kikugorō V (1844-1903) and Kataoka Ichizō III (1851-1906) in the
play Zokusetsu bidan Kōmon ki (The Popular and Moving Story of Kōmon), Fukuchi Ōchi’s revision of Kawatake Mokuami’s
play Kōmonki Osana Kōshaku (The Story of Kōmon, A Lecture for Youth) which was staged at the Kabuki-za on March 15,
1901. From the Lavenberg Collection of Japanese Prints
https://sites.google.com/a/myjapanesehanga.com/www/home/artists/utagawa-kunimasa-iv-1848-1920/kabukiza-sangatsu-
kyogen

The leading Nadai actors settled on ‘The Story of Kōmon: A Lecture for Youth’
(Kōmon ki Osana Kōshaku). Additionally the last piece of the day’s programme, the
Ōgiri Grand Finale, was a production of the Jōruri ‘Rokkasen’. Anyway, I had many
questions before the opening. The building was the first to be called a Grand Theatre
and it seemed that, as the first of its kind in the theatre world, it was increasingly said
that it didn’t seem so bad. Now though I differ in my views from those of the public.
Around about the seventh day, on a Sunday, I went to watch and was just waiting
around at the back of the pit area where I was only the third person, so attendance
was a bit sparse. It wasn’t packed and had by no means drawn a full house. The
entrance fees for a furnished sajiki gallery single room were four yen seventy sen, an
upper pit takadoma raised box three yen fifty sen, and a hiradoma level dirt box in
front of the stage two yen eighty sen.

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While I was watching that Sunday I was told that Kikugorō was ill and that he would
be substituted by Kakitsu who would be playing the role of Kappa no Kichizō, and
would also be substituting for Kikugorō in the role of the poet Kisen Hōshi in the
Jōruri recitation with shamisen piece Fujii Mondayū. Danjūrō was certainly
appropriate as Mitsukuni and was generally very popular with the public in that role. I
was appreciative and moved to great admiration for the Fun’ya no Yasuide Jōruri
recitation with shamisen and as I watched I was in ecstasy during the entire section
of “Fujiya Asama”. Today though, and since then, there have been no actors with
dancing skills who are good enough and can do that. It’s impossible to find actors
any more who have that calm, unconstrained refinement, and naturally light and
easy touch, or so it seems. It’s strongly hoped that the actor Kōshiro, an acceptable
heir to this scene, would like to perform it (Translator’s note: here the author is
probably referring to Matsumoto Kōshiro VII who succeeded to that name in 1911).
Kikugorō also had a reputation at being good in the role of Kappa no Kichizō. The
most unpopular was Fukusuke’s fish shop dealer Hisagorō. Right from the start he
was to blame for overdoing the role and his appearance was pitiful. Comments were
made like ‘it’s a fish merchant, not a greengrocer!’ Anyway that rounded chubby
figure persisted with the Kamigata style acting but it must be said that a true Edo
resident, an Edokko fish monger, would appear as though from a working class
background but there was nothing that could be done to solve it. I now vividly
remember that my heart was fluttering a bit while I watched the fish merchant though
I didn’t give up very often on the Jōruri recitation with shamisen.

That day I went with my father to Danjūrō’s dressing room (gakuya) when for the first
time I met the scholar, amateur dramatist and journalist Fukuchi Ōchi.

Fukuchi Ōchi (Edo Museum, Tōkyō)

There were about fifteen gentlemen all lined up, sitting there wearing black silk
kimonos with small family crests (mon) and black silk crepe formal haori jackets.
Bowing I was introduced to Danjūrō. When he was introduced Danjūrō was simply
referred to as “sensei”. In these circumstances I recall that I was sitting right next to
Ōchi. My shy greeting completed Ōchi turned towards me and, speaking quietly said
‘I’d like to enquire of you Mr. Junior, is it you of whom it’s said is an expert on all
sorts of drama? Is it true?’ Once again bowing my head I replied, ‘Yes’. Ōchi smiled
frequently as he spoke. ‘Still young, aren’t you? Is it your intention to study and if so
have you studied diligently for a while before? Are you really very good at English?’ I
was specifically particularly good at English and had acquired the language with
more than a little practice. ‘Yes, if circumstances allow, its English’, I answered

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boldly to which he replied, ‘That is good. By all means you ought to study more and
more. Furthermore with this little man I’m making headway’, he said, a very frank
exchange at this, our first meeting. In a newspaper editorial there was a short article
called “What if?” that I looked through and I guessed that this was possibly written
secretly by Ōchi the appearance of which belied the impression I had of him from the
easy going informality of our first meeting. In some way I was, I thought, quite
pleased. It so happened that later on Ōchi was provoked about his views. At that
time Danjūrō was playing the role of Mitsukuni in a scene inside Edo Castle where
the priest of Goji-in, the Guardian Temple, was explaining about (the Buddhist
concepts of) destruction and decay. Ōchi commented on this asking “Why is
Kawatake writing in such a scenario when I believe the opposite to be true?” and
went on to comment on other issues as well. It appeared that Danjūrō’s admiration of
Ōchi was heartfelt.

Danjūrō IX in the role of the Kōmon Mitsukuni
by Toyohara Kunichika, 1895

After the Great Earthquake disaster (of 1923) the re-development of a new Kabukiza
Theatre building was expected to re-occur. A large part of the Old Kabukiza Theatre
had survived though in those days it was also the feeling of the audience that they
weren’t in favour of anything vastly different. Even with the caution expressed by the
public there was still plenty of support.

The layout of the published banduke programmes was unusual. Up till then the
theatre play’s banduke showed, amongst other things, the zagashira troupe leader,
the nakajiku (higher ranking actor), the kakidashi (a young actor who is becoming
popular who’s name appears first on the actors' name board), and the kyakuza
(guest actor) which were always listed in the same position. As was the custom the
transcribed positions of those that were listed depended on their official title and
stage name. So for example for the Shintomiza Theatre’s banduke the order was
that Danjūrō was zagashira, Kikugorō was nakajiku, Sadanji was kakidashi, and
Sōjūrō was kyakuza. I heard that there was an article disputing the ranking shown on
the banduke which caused a lot of trouble. So what happened was that the official
titles and the places that they would occupy had to be gathered and written down
every day, a consequence of which was that the proper format of the banduke
including the status of the actors which, though it wasn’t general practice for them to
work solely in their respective roles, was kept for a day at a time. The official titles,
though somewhat vague, were prepared and printed on the banduke according to
their status along with, amongst other things, their yotsuyaku (four roles) or goyaku

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(five roles). From this point on I can really consider what an absurd design this was,
a custom from the olden days, though it wasn’t the person who was suspected who
was responsible. Previously that person had spoken about these ‘banzuke posters
and picture books’ and at that time those close to that person at the Kabukiza
Theatre did away with dozens of those old customs. Usually the assignment of roles
for each actor was written down in sequence, though they were concerned about the
rankings rather than the order in which they appeared on stage which had until then
been the continuing subject of rivalry between professional factions. The assignment
of roles on the banduke using the conventional Kanteiryū style of calligraphy
(traditionally used for Kabuki advertising) was abandoned to be replaced by
conventional printing type.

Those innovations were of course debated. Outdated Kabuki tastes which pervaded
some of the more famous play houses were really objectionable and were frowned
on. I was told that people were unused to some of the banduke for plays that were
being distributed as well as those who thought that those banduke were unusually
convenient. Discovering the appearance of actors’ official titles was really without a
doubt quite useful. Eventually even the dissenters capitulated, gradually beginning to
praise the improvements. However the printing type that I have already mentioned,
with Torii style (of ukiyo-e) scenes, was regarded as somewhat incongruous, a
notion that was spoken of quite widely. However, the Kabukiza Theatre’s
compromising style was subsequently adopted in the world of the theatre though still
using the conventional Kanteiryū style of calligraphy. Gradually those opinions were
eventually assimilated and how quickly the appearance and manufacture of banduke
in the second half of the Meiji period through to the Taishō reflected this. This was
everything that mattered and in those days the people associated with the Kabukiza
Theatre were, without a doubt, greatly resolute in their decision. I and others likewise
opportunistically collected for the first time the Kabukiza Theatre’s banduke. Even if
they looked strange I thought their pictures were interesting.

An event in January the following year, Meiji 23 (1890), a ceremony to celebrate the
opening performance took place at a Kyōto Theatre, a building in Gion. Morita
Kan’ya contracted Danjūrō to bring his troupe. They came on board and Danjūrō left
for Kyōto. At first there was an unusually full house and then the attendance
dwindled until it was unexpectedly small, a bad predicament that needed to be
salvaged. However the failure proved to be fatal and it was reported that Morita
Kan’ya had yet again embarked on another lost opportunity. In spite of this in March
the Shintomiza Theatre, where he took refuge, opened for business. There were two
acts; the second and last act that was performed being an entirely new Jōruri
production. The acting troupe was Kikugorō, Sadanji, Nakamura Shikan IV, and
Fukusuke. The first act was ‘Sassa Narimasa’, the second was ‘The Fire Brigade
Fight’ (Megumi no Kenka).

The murder of Sayuri (aka Hatsuhana) in the first act wasn’t at all challenging. The
second act’s fight between the Sumo wrestlers and the Firemen was extremely
effective at publicising the reputation of the theatre far and wide and it became the
talk of the town with people everywhere saying that it was the way a play should be
performed. Just like that history was made and what people said that was particularly
interesting was that amongst Kabuki plays the ‘The Fire Brigade Fight’ (Megumi no
Kenka) was unique and since then it has been repeatedly performed.

Translator’s Note: Three times the Kabukiza Theatre was destroyed. In October
1921 as a result of an electrical fault and then as it was still being rebuilt on 1st
September 1923 at 11:58 by the Great Kanto Earthquake. The third time was on 25
May 1945 during an air raid.

In March Meiji 23 (1890) both the Shintomiza and Kabukiza Theatres were very
nearly unveiled simultaneously. At the new opening events marquees were put up
for the large audiences that attended which in some way resulted in substantial
returns though on the second occasion I don’t know how much. The marquees
themselves were large inside and as a consequence of the extremely full houses
were generally successful and popular. It was said that in those days, just prior to
this, performances were starting with in excess of full houses though for many it was
customary for many to start with small audiences. At this time performance runs
were successful top hits though there was some uncertainty at the time about what
seemed to be the general mood of the audiences.

Amongst the Kabukiza Theatre’s line up of Kabuki plays listed was an adaptation by
the independent scholar Ōchi of Chikamatsu’s called ‘Tethered Steed and the Eight
Provinces of Kantō’ (aka Tethered Steed* - Kanhasshū Tsunagi-uma). First on stage
was, ‘The Second Tale of the Heike at the Sōma Palace (Sōma Eishi Nidai
Monogatari – a similar version is Masakado), along with ‘Dōjōji’ and ‘Karigane
Bunshichi’ (a version of Shiranami Gonin Otoko). The actors cast were Ichikawa
Danjūrō IX, who was zagashira troupe leader, with other members of that lineage
Ichikawa Gonjūrō, Ichikawa Sumizō V, Ichikawa Shinzō V, Ichikawa Metora II with
additionally Bandō Kakitsu I, and Iwai Matsunosuke IV. In those days this theatre
wasn’t really that busy. Metora used to be with Torikuma Shibai when he was
Ichikawa Fukunojō who unpredictably wasn’t very successful. Gonjūrō, Sumizō and
Shinzō, who were also involved, looked a little out of place as they had not
previously worked at the Shintomiza Theatre. Danjūrō who had previously worked
there had with him in his troupe of disciples Kakitsu and Matsunosuke. There was
concern about the reaction of the public to carrying out the second opening, an event
that was not without risk. My father said, “In real life it does no good not to get hurt
by crossing the Horigoe Canal” (Translator’s note: ..there’s no trying without risk). In
practical terms the potential which had been shown by the Shintomiza Theatre’s
performance of ‘The Fire Brigade Fight’ (Megumi no Kenka) had pleased those who
had appeared in it. It didn’t matter to, or overwhelm, the Shintomiza Theatre whether
the appeal of the Kabukiza Theatre on the other side of the river was increasing.

Naturally with what was happening with the Kabukiza Theatre I felt a little anxious.
The Shintomiza Theatre was being carried by the success of its production of ‘The
Fire Brigade Fight’ (Megumi no Kenka) and the two theatres faced off against each
other with the necessary publicity. The publicity on that occasion touted Danjūrō’s
performance of the woman’s nyomai dance in ‘Dōjōji’ as ‘a once in a lifetime
experience’. On that night Danjūrō would once again perform the challenging
onnagata’s buyō dance and mime. It was anticipated that it would happen as
expected. I remember that at that time, what with the inconvenience of a nearby
theatre, Danjūrō felt more anxious than usual so that on the verge of the opening
performance the publicity for Danjūrō’s performance as ‘a once in a lifetime
experience’ was cancelled and it was changed to simply saying ‘Dōjōji’ and with that
the whole significance of the announcement of his performing a nyomai was lost. If

92
he had performed that it really would have been ‘a once in a lifetime experience’, one
that would not be performed again until after the end of Danjūrō’s generation.

As a result the undertaking that was proposed left one feeling somewhat
disappointed and as a consequence of the cancellation of what had been originally
publicised the potential of the Kabukiza Theatre was lessened so that it seemed that
any future prospects were to going to be disappointing. With such unexpected
commercial considerations in play and though the expectation of the public had been
let down I watched the opening event. My father, as it turned out, had not made such
a good prediction. I went to watch the performance at the Grand Kabukiza Theatre
on the third day – in those days when looking at the Kabukiza Theatre comparisons
were made with other theatres, especially those with large marquees. What was
apparent was that there was less than a full house when special seats and standing
room only had been set up for those only wishing to see one act, at which I was quite
surprised. To some degree it felt a bit odd when it was set up like this to see so
many transient spectators visiting.

Second was Gonjūrō’s ‘Karigane Bunshichi’ with Sumizō as Kaminari Shōkurō,
though the audience didn’t call for an encore. Danjūrō’s ‘Dōjōji’, that so called ‘once
in a lifetime experience’, was still first. The performance of ‘The Second Tale of the
Heike at the Sōma Palace (Sōma Eishi Nidai Monogatari – a similar version is
Masakado) was the special attraction, and Danjūrō’s Shōgun Tarō Yoshikado (from
Tethered Steed) was credible as well as the passage recitation by Bijomaru, saying
that he was cursing the Fujiwara family’s tyranny, ‘Both Ministers, of Left and Right,
the Emperor’s advisers, and all the people of the Fujiwara lineage’.

The Princess and the Magical Toad by Kochoro, 1890 – from the play ‘Sōma Heike Nidai Monogatari’ (aka Masakado - The
Second Tale of the Heike at the Palace of Sōma) Princess Takiyasha, daughter of Taira no Masakado (right: played by Iwai
Matsunosuke IV), the large immortal magical toad Nikushi and Shōgun Tarō Yoshikado, son of Taira Masakado (Ichikawa
Danjūrō IX), Watanabe no Tsuna (Bando Kakitsu) and Bijomaru (Ichikawa Shinzō).Takiyasha and Yoshikado were the children
of the late Heike general, Taira Masakado. They hide in a reclusive palace and plot for the comeback of the Heike clan but are
discovered and attacked by a rival samurai.
http://www.artelino.com/show/window_image.asp?itm=27215

Immediately after those days clan favouritism was implicitly censured though some
audiences appeared sympathetic. Even though that was happening these categories
of plays were still performed. For the first (The Second Tale of the Heike at the Sōma

93
Palace) Danjūrō played three roles, Shōgun Tarō, Nakamitsu and Nakamitsu’s
mother. Pivotal points in the play were when there was a quick change from Shōgun
Tarō into Nakamitsu, and from Nakamitsu into Nakamitsu’s mother. At the point
where Nakamitsu appeared his speech was excellent. After being serious the
mimicry of his mother talking was admirably excellent. The extent of the effort with
which Danjūrō performed made him even more popular. With such certain
excellence in those days his popular appearances were the biggest attraction. The
scene changed to Nakamitsu’s mother with her personal samurai bodyguard Ayabe
at Yorimitsu’s Castle where Bijomaru arrives begging for his life. In the original
version the author made more of the transformation of the actor playing the role of
Watanabe no Tsuna into his aunt, man to woman, woman to man. Additionally, as
was expected, Danjūrō’s return to the role of Genji Taishō (Minamoto Nakamitsu)
and his ad-libbing were a masterful and personal triumph. It was impossible to say
that this man wasn’t still the epitome of perfection when playing a role. Kakitsu
played the role of Yorimitsu. In later performances of ‘Sōma Heike’ this scene was
always omitted. For the convenience of time it was nothing but a loss. Somehow he
discovered that he was unable to reintroduce support for this costumed role.

In such circumstances Danjūrō’s popularity of course increased. In the theatre world
one young actor was suddenly elevated to fame, Danjūrō disciple’s Shinzō. He had
already played Omiwa (Translator’s note: from Imoseyama, an Example of Womanly
Virtue - Imoseyama Onna Teiken) and in that role had gained in popularity, though
his success didn’t persist. He moved between the Nakamuraza and Ichimuraza
Theatres but didn’t work at the Shintomiza Theatre. Though he hadn’t worked at the
Kabukiza Theatre under the direction of his master he promptly enrolled there where
he shared in the role of Bijomaru in ‘Sōma Heike’. Not often on stage, he was
handsome, brilliant, dignified and with a clear voice was a stunning actor. Playing
alongside his master’s characters, Shōgun Tarō and Nakamitsu, his performance
was powerful and dynamic and grabbing the audience’s attention set them on fire.
With his role as Bijomaru becoming increasingly popular he afterwards became
indispensable as one of the Kabukiza Theatre’s actors. Previously at the Ichimuraza
Theatre I had seen him perform as both Omiwa and Koganosuke and had been
greatly impressed. This time I succumbed more and more to his Bijomaru. In every
newspaper review he was all the rage and my caution abandoned I felt happy and
contented.

As a consequence both the Kabukiza and Shintomiza Theatres’ performance runs
concluded successfully. One reason for this was that in the theatrical world at the
time there were two opposing Kamigata acting troupes from Kyōto and Ōsaka giving
second rate performances; Sawamura Tosshi VII, Ichikawa Kigan IV, and Ichikawa
Enjūrō at the Chitoseza Theatre, and Ichikawa Aratarō I, Senshō (Onoe Usaburō II),
and Onoe Tamimaru II at the Nakamuraza Theatre. There were limited appearances
of what was called Grand Kabuki drama at the Nakamuraza and Shintomiza
Theatres starring the idols of the time, Danjūrō at the Nakamuraza Theatre and
Kikugorō and Sadanji at the Shintomiza Theatre. In the theatre world they continued
to be typically competitive and Kikugorō and Sadanji’s performance rosters were
very busy. One actor who was particularly burdened by fame in those days was
Nakamura Fukusuke IV. Brilliantly popular he always mustered with the gentlemen of
Shintomi-Chō Street. Some of the gentlemen of the Kabukiza Theatre were married
and their wives, in losing their husbands to the stage, felt lonely. As a consequence

94
and in an entirely professionally selfish way this resulted in many single actors in the
world of the theatre. At the very least the Shintomiza Theatre was keeping on top of
things and in doing so was managing to keep up with the Kabukiza Theatre. The
Shintomiza Theatre’s misfortune was that it had burdened itself with a very large
amount of debt. Then, so as to put itself on an equal footing with Germany, Japan
opposed the allied powers. The Shintomiza Theatre was feeling the pinch even
though its successes were on a par with its formidable neighbour and opponent from
whom it was feeling the pressure, and so began its sad decline.

Nonetheless the Shintomiza Theatre managed to stay open until it was opposed by
the Kabukiza Theatre. In May both theatres put on opening events very nearly
simultaneously. The Shintomiza Theatre directed the following plays which appeared
in roughly this order, ‘The Morning Breeze in the Ueno Sky in May‘ (Satsukibare
Ueno no Asakaze*),

‘Satsukibare Ueno no Asakaze’ (The Morning Breeze in the Ueno Sky in May) by Yoshiiku, Meiji 23 (1890). Onoe Kikugorō as
Amano Hachirō, the Commander of the Shōgitai fights with Meiji soldiers

‘Eight Principle Events in the Lifetime of the Buddha’ (Shaka Hassō), ‘The
Subscription List’ (Kanjinchō) and ‘The Ōmi Genji and the Advanced Guard’ (Ōmi
Genji - Senjin Yakata). Though the first play about the Shōgitai was kept pretty much
hush-hush it was promoted by fanning the flames of public gossip. Though
previously the theatre had put on ‘The Fire Brigade Fight’ (Megumi no Kenka) the
people of Tōkyō had many memories of the Shōgitai at Ueno and had expectations
of politicised drama appearing on the theatre stage. Consequently the opening
performance of the Shintomiza Theatre’s Battle of Ueno gained city-wide
prominence. Of course the gentlemen of the staff of the theatre undertook various
unusual means of publicising the performance. Among the other actors Nakamura
Fukusuke IV played the role of the Prince Mitsuhito.

95
‘Satsuki Bare Ueno no Asakaze’ (The Morning Breeze in the Ueno Sky in May) by Kunimasa IV. Ikeda Ōsumi no Kami, an
officer of the Shōgitai (left) is played by Ichikawa Sadanji I

In those days the Shitaya public bathhouse still existed and its master used to do
various bits of works for Onoe Kikugorō V amongst which he livened things up a bit
with rumours in the newspapers. At the Kabukiza Theatre Danjūrō played multiple
roles and in ‘The Subscription List’ (Kanjinchō) he played Benkei. Though he was
still working at the Kabukiza theatre the final act of the first play starred Nakamura
Ganjirō I in multiple roles; one of which was Moritsuna in ‘The Battle of Sakamoto
Castle‘ (Ōmi Genji Senjin Yakata - the only surviving eighth act in the modern Kabuki
repertoire is Moritsuna’s Battle Camp, Moritsuna Jinya). The middle act was ‘Eight
Principle Events in the Lifetime of the Buddha’ (Shaka Hassō) with everyone’s
favourite Fukusuke playing the role of Prince Siddhartha. The scene changes for
these productions all went without error. As a consequence of the really thorough
planning and preparation made by the Shintomiza Theatre it looked like the
production would be a success. The results on opening day met with expectations.
With regards to the scene of the Battle of Ueno there was a lot of (kakegoe) shouting
and thunderous applause. The Priest Kōji, played by Fukusuke, appeared wearing
straw sandals which he then removed. Fukusuke’s Kōji was as marvellous as
everyone had imagined and along with many of the older members of the audience I
secretly wiped away my tears.

The independent scholar Ōchi’s adaptation of ‘The True Treasury of Loyal Retainers’
(Jitsuroku Chūshingura) played at the Kabukiza Theatre. The middle act was listed
as the tenth act (Amagasaki) of ‘The Picture Book History of the Regent Toyotomi
Hideyoshi’ (Ehon Taikōki aka The Tycoon’s Exploits). For the first time Nakamura
Ganjirō I came to the capital, Tōkyō. The actors appearing in the middle act were
listed as Tōjirō (probably Azuma Tōzō 5.6 before he took that name), Danjūrō as
Mitsuhide, Sumizō as Satsuki, Fukusuke as Misao, Shinzō as Hatsugiku, and
Gonjūrō as Hisayoshi. That spring Danjūrō and his troupe had worked for a while in
a building in the Gion district of Kyōto and then they had been joined by Ganjirō who
played alongside them as Kampei in ‘The Treasury of Loyal Retainers’ (Kanadehon
Chūshingura). It had been rumoured that they had all returned to the capital, Tōkyō,
but that at the time the young actor (Ganjirō) of the Kanjaku lineage had been
contracted to Kansai. There appeared some very meticulous publicity about his
parting and though I had frequently seen him on stage it was disappointing that his

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popularity wasn’t that good. I also felt that my experience of Ganjirō reflected this.
The suitability of Tōjirō was also very much in decline. His state of health had also
worsened and it seemed as though his performance skills lacked spirit. His
performance had completely undermined the role of Hatsugiku (I preferred Shinzō in
that role), a role which I completely lost out on and the public, in general, expressed
their disappointment vocally.

Be that as it may, I watched the Shintomiza Theatre’s adaptation of Moritsuna on a
Sunday. As a consequence of a lack of time I watched the last act of the day, Ōmi
Genji, only from near one of the entrances. Sadanji appeared on stage in his only
part as Wada Byōe setting off on his descent from Ishiyama from the play Moritsuna.
How much did this allow him to demonstrate his ability? I felt that in the
circumstances he wasn’t able to demonstrate the extent of his skill. However,
compared to the Kabukiza Theatre’s Tōjirō, Sadanji in Moritsuna was a different level
of skill. Though I could only observe Tōjirō’s aptitude for a short time I didn’t care for
it much as I wasn’t satisfied with his role in Moritsuna at the conclusion of Sunday’s
programme. It was rumoured that every time the uchidashi drum signalling the end of
a play would sound half way through the performance. As a consequence audiences
judged that there had been quite enough of this person’s part in Moritsuna and in the
aftermath Tōjirō was left in disgrace which created an exceedingly unpleasant
disposition in the unsophisticated emerging young actor.

Later, Ganjirō became the champion of the Kansai stage, Matsumoto Kōshirō VII
appeared in ‘Moritsuna’s Battle Camp’ (Moritsuna Jin’ya) and the child actor
Ichikawa Botan became Ichikawa Sadanji II. And now gentlemen, after such a long
stretch, I am unintentionally affected by time.

Translator’s note: * ‘Tethered Steed’, a play by Takeshiba Kisui, an actor and pupil of
Kawatake Mokuami. https://www.jstage.jst.go.jp/article/ctr/11/1/11_1_4/_pdf page 15

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Part 16 Former Newspaper Drama Critics

“Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun” (Tōkyō Daily Newspaper) – Invitations to Watch Plays –
The First Time Writing as a Drama Critic – Each Company’s Drama Critics – Making
an Exception for a Minor Theatre

I mentioned before about “the effect of time” – that isn’t everyone‘s concern; it was
so that the elements of my story naturally come together and come across clearly.
My private reflections were rewarded as I watched the remarkable development of
Ganjirō and Sadanji. At the end of January of this same year (1890) I started working
for Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun (Tōkyō Daily Newspaper).

In those days the President of Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun was Mr. Seki Naohiko for
whom my father was already writing. Following my father’s example I was writing
articles talking about the theatre. Mr. Seki was extremely supportive and would
occasionally share a joke with me. I was quite outspoken and occasionally forward
in imposing myself on Mr. Seki’s kind nature. We frequently seemed to be thinking
the same thing. From then on I was a part of the theatrical world. Mr. Seki travelled
overseas watching foreign plays. He showed me much kindness. Without losing any
of the tremendous admiration he had for him Mr. Seki later employed the
independent scholar and executive secretary of the “Theatre Reform Movement”
Fukuchi Ōchi who took part in the management of Nichinichi Shimbun working for
the Trustees. As a result I looked differently at, and took quite a liking to, his articles
on the theatre and in an extraordinary turn of events subsequently gained the
approval of this playwright. Mr. Seki along with one of his Edo compatriots Enomoto
Torahiko was introduced to the independent scholar Ōchi as he came through the
door. At the end of their conversation Mr. Seki turned to me and told me that if I was
going to be writing about the theatre then I must start going to see a lot of plays.
Having just started in a very junior position within the newspaper the company
organised complimentary entrance to performances so I would be more up-to-date.

So I was given a place with the newspaper. The bonus for me was that I would also
be given the opportunity to see performances for free. When I heard this I was
jumping for joy with pleasure. Having pestered Mr. Seki to give me a place with
Nichinichi Shimbun I would benefit right from the start by learning from his wisdom.
Mr. Seki naturally agreed that, as this year’s young apprentice with zero experience,
part of my job would be to attend each performance. Anyway he told me that as a
novice employee I should start as an apprentice reporter so on the afternoon of
January 22nd I visited Nippō, the publishing house of “Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun”. At
the time Nippō was located on a corner of Owari-chō Street in Ginza. It was a cold
day with the threat of snow and in the reception area I presumptuously warmed my
hands at the hibachi brazier. Someone invited me inside and asked me to wait but
before long I was asked to go to the upstairs editorial office where Mr. Seki
personally introduced me to the crowd of people there. And like that I was employed
at the newspaper where to begin with I was appointed as a proof reader’s assistant.

On the afternoon of February 3rd I was immediately summoned to the front desk of
the editorial office by the Chief Editor, Watanabe Tōru. Today for a change, he said,
there is an invitation from Chitoseza Theatre to where you will be going to watch the
performance. So, just like that, I was given detailed directions on how to get from

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Nippō to the Musashiya teahouse. I didn’t need to pay anything and was given fifty
sen and asked to keep full records of any expenses. I immediately left Nippō and got
a rickshaw from Ginza to the Chitoseza Theatre, which today is called the Meijiza
Theatre. The rickshaw journey from Ginza cost six sen.

I subsequently regarded the invitation to watch the performance as a bit odd.
However in spite of this, as I was wondering about it in the rickshaw, I arrived at the
teahouse. Hearing that I was from the newspaper their servant boy politely escorted
me and showed me into a west sajiki gallery. The plays in three acts were shortly
due to be performed. I only just had a passing acquaintance with the people sitting in
the sajiki galleries where I sat a little behind the others. Before long a serving boy
came along with some pastries, appetisers and some sake. The Kabuki plays were:

*Translator’s Notes: an 1880 play by Kawatake Mokuami, aka Yōi Arima Neko - The
Ghost Cat of Arima, prefaced by the title ‘Arimatsuzome Sumō Yukata’. Arimatsu tie
dyed yukata are popular with Japanese Sumō wrestlers and the title suggests that it
was used to advertise this fact or perhaps the play had originally been sponsored by
the tie dying industry of Arimatsu
http://www.shibori-kaikan.com/kaikan-e.html
** Ichikawa Enjūrō held that name from 11th February 1878 to 19th March 1890

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Kigan was triumphant as the frenzied Ōnaka poised riding on the cat. Enjūrō played
the part of the older sister Meguri skilfully. During the afternoon I wasn’t provided
with a bentō box lunch but in the evening sushi was provided after which fruit was
supplied. I thought that this was appropriate as a consequence of having been
invited to see the plays.

Soon after the end of the second act the forty or more highly affluent and refined
people who I was with organised a collection of twenty five sen each. I was a bit
uncertain why as I my attendance was, so to speak, free. I later heard that this was a
tip for the tea house which was given to the servant boy. That day there were more
than fifteen people occupying four sajiki gallery rooms, six of whom were journalists.
Twenty five sen was collected from each which didn’t quite amount to four yen. The
servant boy who was looking after the group expressed his gratitude. The person
who had walked round collecting the tips was Shiosaka Teizaburō from “Engei
Tsūshin” (Entertainment News) who I later got to know. The performance closed at
7pm after which we returned to the Musashiya to sit down and be served an evening
meal at which we were brought two rolled up actors’ tenugui hand towels.

The Musashiya Restaurant at Ushijima by Utagawa Hiroshige

My position with the newspaper established I wasn’t at liberty to come and go as I
pleased at any theatre. It had been a privilege to have attended the premiere on the
3rd, and there was a possibility that I would also be doing so on the 4 th (February).
On that day, the 3rd, all the other newspaper people had been there to watch. It was
the first time I’d met them. It seemed possible then that I would always be watching
from a crowded sajiki gallery so I wasn’t very happy and I began to feel a bit gloomy
about my task. Still, looking at things from a different perspective, I realised that this
might only be happening on a temporary basis perhaps as a one off, so generally
speaking I felt a little bit happier. The following day, the 4 th, while I was working I was
summoned by Mr. Watanabe who told me that, like before, there was an invitation to
a theatre performance which I would be attending and I was instructed to go to
Ichimuraza Theatre on Torigoe-chō Street. I set off straight away for the afternoon
performance which was in three parts of which I managed to see one. The Kabuki
play was ‘Butterflies and Plovers series: The True Story of the Soga Brothers’ (Chō
Chidori Soga Jitsuroku). The cast included Senshō (Onoe Usaburō II), Ichikawa
Aratarō I, and Onoe Tamimaru II who belonged to a troupe of actors who had come
up to Tōkyō from Ōsaka. I had a guest’s place in a doma dirt floor box. I was

100
moderately excited but feeling a bit chilly during the performance. Afterwards we
were directed to a teahouse but not the same one as the day before. Like before Mr.
Shiosaka arrived and collected tips from us asking us each for thirty sen. The
previous day it had been twenty five sen. I was embarrassed as I didn’t know the
reason for the discrepancy. After we got back to the teahouse the rickshaws waited
in front until it was time for us to be sent home. I was aware that with each of the
theatre rickshaws trips I was frittering away too much money on too many tips.

The following day I was back at work though there weren’t any more invitations.
Instead I was called in by Mr. Watanabe who told me, disparagingly, that though he
acknowledged that I had written a review for the day before yesterday what I had
written was nonsense, basically a hopeless mockery, and asked me for the sake of
all those who go to the theatre to rewrite it. I was told that the article was
unnecessarily long and to redraft it to a maximum of two blocks of text of thirty to
forty lines long.

Up to then I had often read reviews in the newspapers. That day I concentrated and
made a start on writing the review. I was a little confused but settling myself and
gathering my courage I wrote a little. Now I was with the newspaper I did this not
knowing what the result would be. From my shelf I took out and looked over one of
the many files that I depended on. It was the one from the previous July-August
period which contained an extraordinarily detailed review of the performance of the
Kabuki play ‘The Sengoku Disturbance’ (Sengoku Sōdō) at the Shintomiza Theatre.
It had probably been written by Mr. Tsukahara Jūshien (the paper’s resident drama
critic, later a historical novelist) and researched by Mr. Watanabe. With my writing
brush I drafted the article that I was thinking of in my copybook. Anyway, in that
same style of writing, it turned out to be somewhat lengthy for something that was
supposed to be only two blocks of thirty to forty lines of text so I considered editing
out my own style of writing to reduce its length. I spent a little time writing up the
article at the end of which was a review of the performances at the Chitoseza and
Nakamuraza Theatres. It was, in total, about thirty two to thirty three lines of text.
Subsequently, the next day, I once more submitted my article to the newspaper
feeling a little disappointed. I felt that with the style of writing used the article might
not be written very well and that it could conceivably be rejected. Over the next day
or two the article was published. There weren’t any letters expressing a difference of
opinion. For a short while I didn’t feel very strongly about it though I later felt quite
proud that I had written a review which had appeared in the newspaper!

So that was how it started. Later on I was supported in what I wrote about each
theatre event that I was invited to and attended and there was satisfaction with what
I wrote. At times Mr. Tsukahara Jūshien would also come along to watch the
performances with me and write his own review though as Mr. Jūshien could be
unnecessarily difficult I seldom asked for him to come with me. Then he would
suddenly just turn up where I was and I would immediately, and surprisingly, find him
unexpectedly agreeable. I had written about both the performances of the ‘The Fire
Brigade Fight’ (Megumi no Kenka) and ‘The Second Tale of the Heike at the Palace
of Sōma’ (Sōma Heike), and Ganjirō’s first appearances on stage so I was told that
after February Meiji 23 (1890) it would be my good fortune that a guest seat in the
sajiki gallery from where I could watch the performances would be usually be
reserved for me in advance.

In addition to these people were, Ozaki Kōyō who used the pseudonym Utarō who
occasionally contributed reviews to the “Yomiuri” newspaper, and Saitō Ryokū who
also sporadically contributed reviews to the “Kokkai” (National Diet). It was with
people like this that I became a colleague and though not yet twenty two years old
and lacking in experience this situation helped me to begin developing. I worked
fairly hard and showed respect to my superiors who I gradually got used to and who,
encouraging me, helped me to mature. This was especially so of Jōno Saigiku Snr.
whose encouragement was freely given and, in a similar fashion, when at the branch
office of “Nichinichi Shimbun” we developed a relationship from which I would be
able to benefit. Anyway, I learnt a lot from Saigiku Snr. about the theatre and about
Edo, something for which I was grateful.

In those days, alongside the newspapers’ expert drama critics such as Saigiku Snr.,
Sudō Nansui, Aeba Takenosha, Morita Shiken, I had a similar mandate.

We regularly gathered at the Grand Theatres over a period of between two or three
days and sometimes even up to four or five days. Of course nowadays my
contribution to editing is completely different and it’s much more the mainstay of my

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involvement. Back then it was just attending the few public events and wasn’t my
sole purpose. Anyway, being with the newspaper as a drama critic, as I was, makes
for interesting reading. At the time I shared with them a tendency to be competitive
and persisted with my writing. Sudō Nansui moved to the “Ōsaka Asahi Shimbun”
(Ōsaka Morning Sun) from “Kaishin Shimbun” (Progressive News) and was replaced
there by the theatre critic Sekine Mokuan. Morita Shiken moved to “Yorozu Chōhō”
(Total Morning News - a pacifist newspaper) from “Hōchi Shimbun” (Intelligent News)
and was replaced there by the drama critic Sugi Ganami. At the time few critics had
paid contracts and except for the journals “Kabuki Shinpō” (Kabuki News) and
“Rokuniren Hyōbanki” published reviews were rarely seen until later on when they
began to appear in newspapers.

Regardless of such circumstances I gradually developed an interest in drama
reviews and as a company employee I naturally wrote a lot and produced many
more articles. I was, in addition, responsible as an assistant for editing and
transcribing. As a consequence I began to miss my attendances at night school. I
cherished my time in the business but eventually left after being a part of the
newspaper industry for seventeen years and two months in total. I was very sorry to
leave. Now the strength of that sentiment has become increasingly and sincerely felt.

During the time that I was a drama critic I was watching performances locally, at the
six so called Grand Theatres; the Kabukiza, Shintomiza, Chitoseza, Nakamuraza,
Ichimuraza, and Harukiza. The Ichimuraza Theatre was still in Motochi and Honjo’s
Kotobukiza Theatre was still under Ikkaku. Of the other small theatres one, the
Azumaza Theatre at Asakusa Park, was the only theatre which extended invitations
to drama critics. Originally newspaper drama critics limited themselves to going to
see performances at the Grand Theatres. It seemed that the Azumaza Theatre was
the only one of its kind that made an exception. It appeared that there was
something special about it that made it interesting to drama critics.

It was in March of that year (1890) that I first saw the actress Kumehachi on stage.
She was initially called Iwai Kumehachi. Later on, when she became Danjūrō’s pupil,
she took the name Ichikawa Keishū. Her other (haiku poet’s) name was Morizumi
Gekka. Though in later years she was called Ichikawa Kumehachi I still remember
her in those days as Iwai Kumehachi.

In the Edo period it was possible for this young woman to become a respectable
Kabuki performer. This was considered somewhat ground breaking as she had first
worked at Ryōgoku’s Satsumaza Theatre and then later for a while at the Jōruriza
Theatre at Satakegahara in Shitaya. Gradually her skill gained public approval and
Kumehachi’s reputation grew as articles about her occasionally began to appear in
newspapers. At the time the title actress wasn’t used. Generally they were referred
to as women actors. Nowadays what is now referred to as actress theatre was then
called women’s drama.

Certainly, during the Edo period combined entertainment by both men and women
was strictly prohibited by law. For this to happen generally women’s drama was
undertaken by an organised female only acting troupe. As a troupe leader
(zagashira) she got to play the pre-approved roles of Kumagai (in Kumagai’s Battle
Camp, Kumagai Jinya), Matsuō (in Sugawara’s Secrets of Calligraphy,
Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami) and Yuranosuke (in The Treasury of Loyal
Retainers, Kanadehon Chūshingura). At the time these were the same roles that
were also played by male actors and this female actor, like them, also clearly
distinguished herself playing male roles (tachiyaku) and female roles (onnagata). Of
course being the leading actor Kumehachi was troupe leader (zagashira). She was
beautiful when she appeared on stage and as leading actor, in her freely chosen
female roles (onnagata), danced with consummate skill. Danjūrō became an ardent
fan. Even though she was a woman with tremendous effort she copied Danjūrō’s
style of acting and carried it off diligently. Finally she gained public recognition and
she was spoken of using an unintentional nickname as the female Danshū (also a
nickname for Danjūrō). I will always remember her triumph. After all she was
someone of talent (I heard that the rakugoka story teller Danshūrō Enshi had said as
much) and at the same time as she became Danjūrō’s disciple her name was
changed to Ichikawa Keishū. Though I had first seen her accidentally I especially

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made the effort and somehow managed to contrive to see her again when she was
working again at the Kotobukiza Theatre in Honjo.

Though in those days it was a minor theatre the Kotobukiza Theatre was, like the
Grand Theatres, quite famous. On to that stage had stepped Nakamura Nakazō IV,
Bandō Kakitsu I, Ichikawa Kodanji V and Sawamura Gennosuke IV. Kumehachi
stepped on to that stage as part of the theatre world’s women’s drama cast
alongside Iwai Beika, Matsumoto Kinshi, Ichikawa Sumiya, and Sawamura
Kikuhachi. The date we had been invited to attend was 2 nd March and the doors for
the performance opened at 9am. The Kabuki plays were ‘Twenty Four Paragons of
Filial Piety‘ (Nijūshi Kō), ‘Mountain Witch Yamanba’ (Yamanba), and ‘Osome
Hisamatsu’. Kumehachi played the roles of Princess Yaegaki Hime and the Mountain
Witch Yamanba, a role which she naturally played in the style of Danjūrō. She
worked for many years as a leading actor during which it seemed that she was
concerned about losing her voice as a consequence of painstakingly using Danjūrō’s
heavy and difficult tone of voice which sounded like a bit of a strain. Made up as
Princess Yaegaki Hime she certainly looked gorgeous and elegant. It struck me that
the use of that kind of loud voice must feel very unpleasant. She was at the time
probably just over forty years old and though in her later years she was in
competition with someone else who was equally beautiful (Translator’s note: this is
almost definitely a reference to Sada-Yacco) I remember how naturally beautiful she
was as she aged. I remember that Danjūrō’s previous appearance at the Ichimuraza
Theatre as Princess Yaegaki Hime was of course, as you would expect, excellent.
Now I consider that at the time I thought that, in spite of this, Kumehachi seemed to
do extremely well in this style. Her dance, as well as her Yamanba, were nothing but
triumphs. She was wonderful to watch. I had already heard that Kumehachi’s
reputation had been established for some time and as I watched her begin her
performance on stage I too without a doubt approved of Tōkyō’s unique woman
actor.

In a later show Kumehachi performed as the Lady in Waiting Asaoka in ‘True Report
of the Troubles of the Date Clan’ (Jitsuroku Sendai Hagi’*) and as the young woman
Osen in ‘A Commentary on the Reflection of Womanly Good and Evil’ (Musume
Hyōban Zen’aku Kagami). She also moved to the Azumaza Theatre in Asakusa
where she performed as Umeōmaru and Kan Shōjō in ‘Sugawara’ (Sugawara’s
Secrets of Calligraphy, Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami), as Okitsu and Oden in
‘The Ghost Story of Tsukino Kasamori’ (Kaidan - Tsukino Kasamori), and as
Takahashi Oden in ‘Kanagaki Robun’s Tale of the Demon Takahashi Oden’ (Oden
Kanagaki). These performances took place in what was probably her heyday.
Kumehachi’s reputation as a female Danshū became well known in Tōkyō and she
was worthy of her rapid rise to fame.

Translator’s note: *Jitsuroku Sendai Hagi - In the late 17th century, there was a
dispute over leadership in the Date clan that led to the villainous head retainer
Harada Kai being interrogated in the mansion of the highest advisor to the shogun
and killing his accuser Date Aki there before being killed himself. This incident was
reported in “jitsuroku (true record)” books that laced reportage with lurid fiction. This
was then dramatized in the popular play “Meiboku Sendai Hagi.” (The Precious
Incense and the Autumn Flowers of Sendai)… (the) jitsuroku version shows the
nurse Asaoka caught between her duty to protect the young lord of the clan while the

105
investigation is being conducted and her love for her own son, who comes from the
home clan far away to see her
http://www.eg-gm.jp/e_guide/eng_showtimes/eng_kabukiza.html

That was an event I remembered well. It took place in August when both men and
women appeared at the theatre and from that point on did so without hindrance from
the Metropolitan Police Department who drafted a new permit. From this developed
what I thought was an odd motivation to depart from the theatre reform debate. In
many Western countries both men and women were appearing on stage together. It
seemed that it was only in our country that there was a unique and controversial law
in place operated by the authorities banning this. Anyway after an initial decision was
made this Edo prohibition faded away. In the world of the theatre it was such an
unusual occurrence that many people linked to the professional world of the theatre
treated it with some caution.

In former times in foreign countries there were professional onnagata though today it
has become really unfashionable and usually women’s roles are performed by
women. In the last ten years the newspaper companies have, with increasing
frequency, published articles chronicling this aspect of the theatre. Theatre Reform
changed its view and along with the newspapers was loudly enthusiastic. Western
actresses were increasingly mostly professionally taught. The time had arrived for
more Japanese actors and actresses to stand equally together on one stage,
something which had been anticipated by some. And just like that they appeared,
suddenly gaining prominence. In those days I was working in the newspaper’s
editorial department when the ban was finally and suddenly lifted completely.
Surprisingly I arrived just at the same time as Mr. Seki Naohiko (journalist, politician
and lawyer) and Mr. Tsukahara Jushien (historical novelist) which seemed oddly
coincidental. It was rumoured that they had both readily intervened with the
Metropolitan Police Department.

Just supposing that today such a problem occurred... Lots of activity would, without a
doubt, be started by the newspapers. Some people would hurry to the Metropolitan
Police Department in order to check on licences. Some would go and visit the
theatre master (zanushi) at the Shintomiza Theatre and they would confront each
other in order to confirm that the rumours were true. Some would go and visit
Danjūrō and Kikugorō and they would confront each other with their opinions and
trade insults. Also the style of newspaper editors would be much more different
today than it was in those days and they would talk about such issues quite frankly. It
wouldn’t be conjecture but that they would in fact then appear to be entering into
experimental journalism while unusually large printing type would be used recklessly
and without thought to the defenceless. Those sort of news stories generally mostly
used upper case number five printing type for their headlines. The usual
straightforward journalism wouldn’t then be used and of course, as a result of this
there wouldn’t be any additional reviews appearing in the newspapers.

As it happened the newspapers stayed relatively quiet about the whole thing and
anyway problems can only become more problematic. The theatrical guilds (gekiya)
conducted generally good natured debates about the rights and wrongs of such
appearances. One person was generally reasonable and said it was OK. A second
said that it was unfortunate that now both men and women were suddenly permitted

106
to appear together in the world of the theatre. A third felt that although the
combination of men and women in the theatrical world was ideal that the partnership
of Danjūrō and Kikugorō was also making a partnership with a famous actress
increasingly public. To what extent would actresses be as successful as the old
friends Iwai Hanshirō VIII, the then living Iwai Matsunosuke IV, Bandō Shūchō II,
Sawamura Gennosuke IV or Nakamura Fukusuke III? They simply didn’t appear to
achieve as much as them. Even though there were already onnagata specialists it
was said that they were just unable to change with the times. A fourth said that
whatever foreign countries were doing, onnagata were characteristic of, and
originated in, Japan and that their role was being inappropriately damaged. During
that time the people who were of the first opinion argued vociferously that with
regards to the combination of men and women the theatre world was now at a point
where, though it had been impossible to have done this before, as a consequence of
the current controversial situation a resolution had been found and things were now
somewhat different. On a practical note the first person advocated loudly that the
actress was ideal though however much she was being touted the issue
consequently produced a tangible problem in that regard and so for the time being it
hadn’t been possible to work out a strategy. Eventually the issue was becoming sort
of ‘high collar’ (though, just so as to keep you informed, that phrase ‘high collar’
wasn’t in general use until about nine years later, from about Meiji 32 (1899) when it
was an emerging fashion. In those days, it was said, it was used exclusively as a
consequence of Western influence) as a result of which the person who was
advocating this was generally ridiculed. At the time the Metropolitan Police
Department was surprisingly resolute in its decision and as any repercussions would
be pointless the debate was shelved.

However, Kumehachi, the person who was in the midst of this situation was reputed
to be in the early stages of motherhood. It was said that if Kumehachi had stood on
the stage alongside actors perhaps she had submitted to each one of them.
Alternatively, at that time the newspapers prematurely and maliciously suggested
that though it couldn’t be said for certain because she was a pupil of, and adored by,
Danjūrō that they had been partners whilst working together at the Kabukiza
Theatre. A considerable number of false articles about Kumehachi appeared. This
was an opportunity to seek guidance from a superior in order to work out how and
what lessons might be learned from this situation. One question that kept popping up
was about whether Danjūrō had given any consideration to the situation? I was
amongst those who didn’t behave inappropriately. Anyway many persistent rumours
that purported to be the truth were being bandied about as a consequence of
Kumehachi continuing to appear in Grand Kabuki. That the “rumour” was factual
persisted. However, the more conventional theatres took exception to women’s
drama and would not employ women actors. Kumehachi was still worthy of the title
of the Queen of Women’s Drama and hadn’t been surpassed. In my personal
capacity I didn’t want to discuss Kumehachi, the only famous actress I would spend
time watching. Unfortunately, at forty years old, she reached her term of pregnancy
early, gave birth prematurely and had to endure the death of her child. To sum up,
even though it wanted to the theatrical world found it difficult, almost impossible, to
endure such grief.

Afterwards Kumehachi was for some reason at the Misakiza Theatre for a long time,
about four or five years. With her troublesome personality she appeared to be

107
ineffective as the troupe leader (zagashira) and the people in the troupe became
disaffected. She was only going to take on her own pupils, though after this they
didn’t go with her. During the next ten years the generations were moving on as
actors came and went. All those in minor productions, including the troupe in
question, simply did not develop into similar ranking actors. Although she
represented one acceptable talented aspect of women actors, as she reached old
age she simply became outdated and passed her remaining years without acting.
After the Imperial Garden Theatre (Teikoku Gekijō) opened (in 1911) many
actresses, women with fresh modern outlooks, began appearing from its third
season onwards. She was missing, her generation having moved on. Ichikawa
Kumehachi was the last woman actor in Japan.

During the theatre season of Meiji 38 (1905) a memorial service was held at the
Kabukiza Theatre on the second anniversary of the death of Danjūrō. Kumehachi
was the one disciple who acted in the prologue ‘A Fight in the Dark at the Rock
Cave’ (Iwato no Danmari aka Arigataya Megumi no Kagekiyo: Iwato no Kagekiyo,).
Aspiring to the living inheritance of her master she appeared on the stage of the
Kabukiza Theatre. Whatever apprehension she may have been feeling after her
master’s death she was able to do justice to his inheritance. Because of her situation
in her last years she drifted about a bit. It was, it was said, a misfortunate aspect of
her life. On the matter of her late renaissance – I heard actresses one by one say
that they felt they had become famous as a result of having been motivated by
Kumehachi’s fame.

I received many instructions from the Jōno Saigiku Snr. (aka Jono Denpei - essayist,
novelist and drama critic), and also from the Nishida Kinha Snr. (aka Nishida
Densuke)**.

Translator’s notes:
*Koji – literally private sector scholar, Ōchi used this as a pseudonym. In this chapter
Kido becomes more familiar with and refers to Fukuchi Ōchi as Ōchi Koji or simply
Koji. In light of this he is from this point on referred to in the same way in translation.
**Jōno Saigiku aka Jono Denpei and Nishida Kinha aka Nishida Densuke were co-
founders who, with Yishiiku and Hirōka Kosuke, founded the Tōkyō Nichinichi
Shimbun Company
For a who’s who of those in the newspaper and nishiki-e world of the Meiji era who
are mentioned here see
http://members.jcom.home.ne.jp/yosha/nn/almanac/Almanac_whos_who.html

I was unaware as to the detail of their involvement. Kinha Snr. had at the same time
a dual role both as a member of ‘Yamato Shimbun’ and, it would appear, as Director
of the Editorial Board of the ‘Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun’ newspaper publishing
company. He contributed even more to the printing of ‘Yamato Shimbun’ than ‘Tōkyō
Nichinichi Shimbun’. A lot of the time I didn’t quite understand what his relationship
was with ‘Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun’. Anyway, Kinha Snr. came to work every day,
shutting himself away in his own ordinary office.

When I started there I was unaware what everyone did. At the time I was directed to
the printing department and went along accompanied by Kinha Snr. who asked me,
‘Is it you who is currently writing drama criticism?’. At the beginning, during the
afternoons, an office boy was sent to the area where I worked. He had nothing to do
and asked me to come and play with him. I was a little abrupt with him telling him
that I was going out. I waited for Kinha Snr. while he tidied his things away in his
office. I was given tea house sweets and talks on various plays. He was a relative of
the proprietor of the Kabukiza Theatre, Chiba Katsugorō, someone who I later got to
know.

I realised that for some reason in the circumstances at the time drama was
increasingly well regarded. I was struck with admiration. In the circumstances of the
Meiji era of those days this was a matter of course whereas during the past Edo
period everything was different when drama was not well thought of. It was explained
to me in great detail about Kabuki plays, actors and dates. I was simply astonished
at how detailed and extensive that knowledge was and how foolish I was. I was
nervous in the presence of such an unrivalled memory. That was how management
was. To start with I made occasional vaguely knowledgeable comments and when
afterwards I was called into his office I gradually began to join in the conversation
and could sense that the future would be a little brighter. Kinha Snr. had a collection
of more than three hundred books of Kabuki gidayū chants in his possession of
which I borrowed and read about two hundred.

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Then both Itō Miyoji and Mr. Seki Naohiko (the journalist, politician and lawyer)
simultaneously decided to leave “Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun”, as well as Kinha Snr. It
was with some regret that the opportunity of becoming close to those senior people
passed.

Much later on I occasionally visited a house in Ginza, walking over there after having
checked in advance if it would be OK. Now though, as often as I might, it’s too late to
feel regret about the situation at the time.

At around the same time I began a friendship with Mr. Enomoto Torahiko. It was the
summer of Meiji 23 (1890) and the Diet Government elections were taking place.
Coincidentally, at the same time, the satirical novel ‘The Immortal’s Dream’ (Senkyo
no Yume) by the independent scholar Fukuchi Ōchi was serialised in “Tōkyō
Nichinichi Shimbun” as a consequence of which Mr. Enomoto frequently visited the
editorial office. In those days Mr. Enomoto was lodging at Ōchi Koji’s residence and
in the same way a student would, he was obliged to undertake various jobs in return
for his lodging and was also doing some teaching. He was working in the author’s
room at the nearby Kabukiza Theatre. In the Kabukiza Theatre’s picture book (ehon)
certain people by the name of Takeshiba and Namiki were listed though Mr.
Enomoto was the only one whose real name, Enomoto Torahiko, was given in full. It
seemed curious at the time.

I was rewarded with a friendship with Mr. Enomoto. Though he had his own
preferred style of writing Mr. Enomoto’s work was reviewed and edited by Fukuchi
Sensei who also gave him advice and feedback. In the previous year I had already
seen Ōchi Koji (Fukuchi) backstage at the Kabukiza Theatre. I was also knew Mr.
Enomoto who, nevertheless, was openly seen arriving at and leaving from the
Kabukiza Theatre. Another time I got absolutely the best introduction to him from
Danjūrō. In the circumstances my father had spoken with Danjūrō though I don’t
know to what degree Danjūrō repeated what my father said to Ōchi Koji. A couple of
weeks had passed before Mr. Enomoto next visited the ‘Nichinichi Shimbun’
newspaper company. He had also agreed to accept Ōchi Koji as his Sensei who I
had to inform beforehand of any intended visit to his Tsukiji residence.

The annual Hiei Shrine Festival took place on the 14th June Meiji 24 (1891). The
following day, with the eaves of my house hung with Japanese lanterns (noki
chōchin), I visited the Tsukiji residence of my employer Ōchi Koji with small boxes of
sweets. At around that time Ōchi Koji’s principle residence was in Tsukiji’s second
district (ni-chōme) and Koji set up his secondary residence, where he would work, in
an alleyway diagonally opposite. That was where Mr. Enomoto lived with an old
servant called Kinzō. During the day that was Koji’s official residence and at night he
stayed at his primary residence. Approaching Koji at his desk he appeared very busy
with paperwork and writing documents. Mr. Enomoto greeted me cheerfully as I
arrived. At our recent meeting at the Kabukiza Theatre he had been just the same,
smiling and laughing as he greeted me in much the same way, ‘So mister, I’ve heard
that the that you’ve come from Horigoe. Well now, it seems that you’ve been
studying. It really is considerably difficult work, isn’t it?” Everything he said
afterwards and to the other visitors in his room was certainly sincere. I left after
chatting with Mr. Enomoto in his room for about thirty minutes.

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About a month later it appeared that Koji had moved to the second floor of his
secondary residence. It had previously been occupied by Wakana Sadamitsu (aka
Wakana Kochōen, previously a popular novelist gesakusha and later a journalist)
who worked for the ‘Tōkyō Asahi Shimbun’ newspaper company. The wooden
latticework entrance was three tatami mat sized. Then, on the right hand side was an
eight tatami mat room (zashiki). Koji’s study was a gloomy four tatami mat room
where his books were stored. Mr. Enomoto’s room was a three tatami mat sized
room. The kitchen had been installed in a one tatami mat sized room where there
was a hibachi brazier for the aged Kinzō and a second bathroom.

The aged Kinzō hustled and bustled around the Fukuchi residence. Though he
wasn’t of noble lineage it would seem that he was famous though I didn’t know of
him. Since the end of the Edo period he had worked as a servant and his family
name, which I am trying to recall, was something like Gōzaka.

Gōzaka Kinzō, whose given name was reputed to be associated with nobility,
seemed more than was usual an extraordinarily faithful and virtuous old man. I was a
little uncomfortable under his somewhat piercing gaze.

In the evening my host, staring at the aged Kinzō, told him off in no uncertain terms
though he didn’t cower as others might. Mr. Enomoto had already told him what he
wanted him to do and I was filled with trepidation as he emotively bade the old man
to follow his earlier instructions occasionally scolding him. Though towards young
people he was nicely disposed we were sort of intimidated into being nice towards
the old man.

In the daytime when I was going to work I called in to the Tsukiji residence
beforehand and was told off by Koji as he was busy with his professional writing.
Though I had often previously been a visitor my many return visits to loiter in Mr.
Enomoto’s room were stopped. Around that time as I recall the two of us would go to
a fishmonger on Shintomi-chō Street to eat eel. The usual cost of a plate of eel in
soy sauce at Chikuyō Restaurant was twenty two sen five rin and cooked rice for one
was three sen. A very nice meal of eel for two was always pleasant and seemed
such a simple dish for the both of us. Individually the bill including a serving of rice
for one person was twenty eight sen so the cost for two people was roughly fifty six
sen. Now though it would seem, I suppose incorrectly, that this would be considered
inordinately expensive. All I can say is that out of the total bill after deducting fifty sen
the other six sen was for service. The monthly salary I received from ‘Nichinichi
Shimbun’ was fifty yen. Mr. Enomoto received from the theatre about five or six yen
less than that, a tough budget, and once he received only thirty to forty sen for a
short story he wrote for “Yamato Shimbun”.

Diagonally opposite the secondary residence was a water well. As I approached the
neighbourhood the local young women were often to be found there washing
laundry. When any men arrived or left the Ōchi Koji’s residence, which was just past
the well, they were of course alerted to their presence. Once I was passing by when
one young woman with a tiny voice said to me, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if you are an
actor’, while another then scrutinised me. ‘But I don’t know any such actors. I’m just
an underling’ (underling, ペエペエ, peepee), I replied in a softly spoken voice. Being

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an actor is pleasant; being an office underling is bad. I was somewhat offended and
complained to Mr. Enomoto, ‘I’m becoming more and more satisfied with being an
underling. This is in spite of what I said the other day when I was unfortunately telling
the others that it’s not very good’, at which Mr. Enomoto laughed.

My attitude towards the women was somewhat disdainful and as I came and went I
rebuffed them. At the time I couldn’t fathom the reason for this as on the one hand I
had this attitude yet on the other not, at least not publicly. Anyway, over the previous
year Mr. Enomoto had been accepted as the Kabukiza Theatre’s standing
playwright. He wrote both the ‘The Master Craftsman Kakiemon’ (Meikō Kakiemon)
and ‘The Sacrifice of the Maiden of Kyōgashima’ (Kyōgashima Musume no Ikenie,
based on Jean Racine’s play Iphigénie). From my point of view, in spite of what had
happened before, my work as an office junior still afforded me a peaceful lifestyle.
After all being an office junior wasn’t going to be the be all and end all of things. I
can’t help but say that those young women had keen insight.

That year, in the autumn, Mr. Enomoto stood down from his position at the Kabukiza
Theatre as he had taken employment with “Yamato Shimbun” leaving his lodgings at
the Tsukiji residence and moving elsewhere. Up till then Ōchi Koji had been
occasionally busy. Mr. Enomoto’s room, where I had spent some time, had been
vacated and I felt that I had lost the place where I would go to while away some time.
In the evening Ōchi Koji was at home. I called by in the morning but he was writing
and had a visitor so a meeting was out of the question. He had been sent two or
three scripts so there was pressure of work and not much free time. To make
matters worse I was feeling lonely and somewhat forlorn as I was already missing
Mr. Enomoto. I felt really despondent and isolated and would, seemingly
spontaneously, start to walk in the direction of Tsukiji. Once Mr. Enomoto had left the
Kabukiza Theatre, various other people did the same. The lasting prospects that I
had a first felt in the author’s room were now unexpectedly halted. For a while
afterwards I felt really upset.

The ownership of the ‘Nichinichi Shimbun’ newspaper company was about to
change. Afterwards it was also moved out of the hands of the man I previously
mentioned from the Kantō Region whose family name was Seki (Naohiko). The
company’s management had changed and the newspaper’s editorial board had also
changed. I was up until then busy and had, until one event occurred, a positive
outlook. That event took place the following year when Ōchi Koji’s serialised novel
‘Yamagata Daini’, which had been appearing in “Nichinichi Shimbun” was, without
permission, published by the author with a publishing company called Shun’yō Dō.
Today one wonders what might be done in such a situation. At that time it was clear
that the reason this had happened was that approval had been given within
“Nichinichi Shimbun” where the novel had been previously published and it was also
said that it had been someone in authority. Ōchi Koji was stubborn in his resolve and
claimed that it was within his authority to do so. From my previous involvement I was
often used as the messenger, communicating their negotiations back and forth. I was
troubled with questions about the disparity between the negotiating positions of both
sides in the dispute and was told categorically that if I went to Tsukiji I would be told
off.

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Which side should I have listened to?! I said that, regrettably, I was unable to
understand or accept what was going on. Eventually I was helped by Mr. Tsukahara
Jūshien (novelist) and others who chatted to me. To start with I was undecided as to
what was appropriate as since the incident Ōchi Koji’s regular articles in “Nichinichi
Shimbun” no longer appeared.

So it was with sorrow I walked over there. The affair was coming to an end and I felt
that it had increasingly been having a detrimental effect. The possibility of passing
through the slatted wooden lattice (kōshi) of the Tsukiji residence was lost to me. At
the kōshi I rang the pleasant sounding bell.

In this way I am able to express my regret for not having visited. I always remember
Koji as someone who helped me, something this account will leave to posterity. In
private he always had a good word to say to me. Given my regard for him and the
situation he was in I was not unsympathetically judgmental of Koji’s integrity. My
relationship with him regrettably ended about a year after I had first set foot at his
door and for a long time during my youth I remembered his generosity. If I could
have expressed my gratitude it would have been for those circumstances, for which I
was truly grateful. Of course I bumped into him later on when I was with the others
visiting the theatre when it must have seemed that I had been bad mannered for not
having called round and apologised. Koji, as ever, smiled sweetly and said to me,
‘How are things? Are you, as usual, still studying?’ Mr. Enomoto and Koji also once
again returned in a professional capacity to the Kabukiza Theatre, though I didn’t.
After that I also neglected to visit (Fukuchi) Nobuyo san’s place and didn’t have the
opportunity to apologise to my mentor.

Ōchi Koji was such a good natured person. What kind of summer would I have,
working without a break, always sitting at my desk with my writing brush in hand?

The Appearance of Courageous Youth Drama (Sōshi Shibai) of the Shinpa or New
School of Acting - Kawakami arrives in Tōkyō - Gidayū Musicians Starting in
Historical Drama (Shigeki) - In the Tight Sleeves of a Battle Surcoat (Jinbaori) -
Drama Criticism that was Infuriated Criticism

I was twenty years old when I first started watching Ōchi Shibai (Political Youth
Drama) at a house in Tsukiji, the only way to see it at the time, an event that
heralded something new and important to remember. What was called “Sōshi Shibai”
(Courageous Youth Drama) I watched at the Nakamuraza Theatre.

I am not recounting this now from the manuscript about the history and theory of
Sōshi Shibai, composed at length and in very great detail. However, here I am
talking about it because I recall that Sudō Sadanori, a member of the Liberal Party
(Jiyūtō), started Sōshi Shibai in Ōsaka. Furthermore I am going to talk about the
circumstances surrounding the occasion when it appeared and was introduced by
Kawakami Otojirō in Tōkyō. This type of drama was begun by Sudō and the
independent scholar Nakae Chōmin. Chōmin was moving away from adherence to
the principles surrounding Tōkyō’s administration of law and order (honajōrei) and for
a while he lived in exile in Ōsaka. This was a period that thrived on Government
debate. At the time the independent scholar Suehiro Tecchō’s political novel “Plum
Blossoms in the Snow” (Secchūbai) was very popular and in vogue. A theatre
manager in Ōsaka saw this as a clever opportunity and straight away had it adapted
for the stage. The protagonist Kunino Motoi was played by Ichikawa Udanji I, and the
supporting role by Takeda Takeshi at the Kadoza Theatre. Both members of
Ganjirō’s popular troupe of actors, Takeda was especially popular. Chōmin was seen
there on that occasion unwisely making a speech at a meeting discussing politics.
As the play is a fictitious comment on politics he came up with the idea as a
generally effective way of simultaneously making statements on his political views.
Though this was recommended to him Sudō was temporarily undecided. Eventually,
his thinking being along the same lines, he decided to go along. Experimenting by
expounding his views standing on stage the event was unexpectedly successful. It
appeared that the success of one type of business meant the success of the other.
And like that the variety of theatre called Sōshi Shibai entered the world of the
theatre. Though its origins were artistically inspired the original motives for creating it
which originally had nothing to do with the stage remained concealed. Anyway the
entry fee that was taken was according to what each could afford, which must have
been one of its selling points, though I think that the purpose for which tickets were
sold was nothing but to discuss politics. The scene was a standing brawl. In those
days what was called “Sōshi” invariably and habitually ended up with fighting. Every
time there was continual fighting. The fighting would inevitably be carried out on
stage with absurd wrestling and disagreeable punching. This was indeed truthfully
undeniable and some in the audience were delighted. The stand-up fights were
certainly a selling point for Sōshi Shibai. This was told as personally witnessed by
the independent scholar Chōmin.

What also happened was that this spread throughout the theatre world where the
same political speeches were repeated. It was felt that they were held to do nothing
but resort to fighting yet they were still held. Mind you though, on the other hand the

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acting troupes on stage gradually became accustomed to it. It would seem that the
naturally dramatic plotline was being used as a way of dramatizing the situation.
Anyway, it was in this crucible that today’s Shinpa was born.

It just so happened that the compositions of Sudō were made together with
Kawakami Otojirō, the founder of the New School of Acting (Shinpa), who alongside
Sudō was able to develop and maintain his influence.

Kawakami Otojirō

It was the troupe which he led which boldly and dramatically arrived in Tōkyō in the
summer of Meiji 24 (1891). In the troupe were Fujisawa Asajirō, Shizuma Kojirō,
Kanauzumi Ushitarō, Kimura Shūhei, Kimura Takenosuke, and Aoyagi Sutesaburō
who all played supporting roles.

Fujisawa Asajirō

I first saw them on stage in July that year at the formal opening of the new
Nakamuraza Theatre. Danjūrō acted in “Takatoki” and the pedigree of actors was
correctly listed on the Yagura tower.

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Modern Nakamuraza Yagura

In recent years the audience are embarrassingly unable to tell much about the
pedigree of the actors and the remainder of the cast aren’t listed either. In those
days Tōkyōites took a disdainful view in their approach to what Sōshi Shibai might
be able to lend to the stage and seemed as though they were under some sort of
confused suffering. However, somehow or other the event was laid on at a Grand
Theatre in the centre of Tōkyō and with that one event Kawakami Otojirō’s
appearance determined his destiny. He was certainly adventuresome and boldly
audacious.

At the time on two occasions plays that were performed were first Yoda Gakkai’s
work ‘Details from the last days of the Revered Kusunoki’ (Shūi Gonichi Renshi no
Kusunoki) and then Yano Ryūkei’s ‘Inspiring Tales of Statesmanship’ (Keikoku
Bidan) which was usually performed each time. The treatment of the two roles of
Kusanoki Masanori and Kumaō Maru were as with a historical drama (shigeki).
Kusanoki was played by Aoyagi, Kumaō by Kawakami, and the maid Chiyono by
Fujisawa. That was as usual until ‘The True Account of the Misfortune of Mr. Itagaki’
(Itagaki Kun Sōnan Jikki, based on the attempted assassination of Itagaki Taisuke),
a type of Kabuki play that only this troupe performed. The cast wore black lacquered
eboshi court caps, hitatare ceremonial court robes, and tachi long swords in
ornamental belts. What sort of apparel were they wearing and what sort of play were
they doing? Looking down from the sajiki gallery where I had been invited I was
interested to see what kind of play this was. Unexpectedly there were many people
in the audience and the doma dirt floor boxes were about seven eighths full. Those
people were probably, like me, filled with curiosity and were attending as a
consequence of this.

However on stage the results were better than expected. Naturally a great many
people amongst the audience were pulling some very odd faces and saying things
like, the eboshi cap that person is wearing is twisted, from the presentation of the
speech it can’t be determined who that person is supposed to be, it’s difficult to tell
whether that’s a man or a woman, that person has a broad provincial accent. Many
various non-existent faults were being pointed out. Anyway, apart from the issues
they were thinking about what people were wearing, at the end of the play it was
obvious that there was a failure on the part of the audience to have suspended
disbelief. This play was of course especially written as a history play for this troupe of
actors but the style seemed to have been discarded wholesale. The aim was more to
have written the play using pre-existing conventions for Kabuki actors. To set the
scenes some Takemoto Jōruri sung narrative with shamisen accompaniment was

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also used. With this the drama called Sōshi had, alongside the actors, started to use
Gidayū Kabuki musicians. Though this seemed peculiar and somewhat dubious the
whole of the maid of honour’s parting speech with Gidayū accompaniment was
entirely satisfactory and in one section the audience was moved to tears. I also
thought that it was admirably done. Though they were considered laymen they
managed to get through something which could in no way be judged a usual
situation and had probably thought they wouldn’t be able to do it. In the interval
between the first and second performance Kawakami sang his Oppeke song. At this
I also frowned and one member of the audience tried to call out. Though this was
unavoidable the rest of the audience watched with great tolerance.

Kawakami with his Oppeke song was certainly a special attraction. At the front of the
stage he was sitting surrounded by a standing folding screen. He was made up with
zangiri cropped hair while he wore, on the back of his head a white headband, a tight
sleeved kimono of vertically striped back cotton called Kokura ori, pleated baggy
hakama trousers of striped Takijima crepe with an indigo pattern, a jinbaori battle
surcoat and holding an open fan emblazoned with a red sun. He raised his big and
challenging hoarse and throaty voice and sang the Oppeke song. As he began to
sing the song began something like this…

Kawakami Otojirō singing Oppekepe

At this dawn when our National Diet has opened,
Give up your fooling around with entertainers,
You must protect Japan with everything you’ve got.
If you crave married women with their shaved eyebrows*,
Go get a decent sweetheart and make her your own.
But if you want your eyes to pop open,
Jump into bed with a passionate badger**.
Oppeke-pe-e, Oppeke-pe-ppoo-ppoo (No goody good, no goody good no damn
good)

And just like this everyone started gossiping enthusiastically about this unusual song
that he was singing. Though it seemed a very childish and inartistic thing it is true

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that it became extremely popular. Since then we now have Matsui Sumako’s
Katysusha’s Song. As a consequence Kawakami’s name came up whenever
Oppeke-pe was spoken about as, through this unfortunate association, he became
very famous. As he became someone more familiar it turned out that he was an
extraordinary person of outstanding ability. In his bid for popularity he worked to rid
himself of his recklessness. Tōkyōites approved of him as a Sōshi actor. However
lovers of drama remained disdainful of the playing of Oppeke.

Nevertheless it was seen as a hit and in that way many more ‘troops’ rushed to join
the movement. Though the company was doing more in public this didn’t mean that
they were making a point of stirring things up. At the same time the Kawakami
faction were uttering various insults, something which the company themselves were
also subjected to. Although the ‘Kawakamis’ were personally reliant on Sōshi the
reverse was not true. Like merchant’s employees and street entertainers they
travelled around in a crowd. It was rumoured that when moving around they did so in
great numbers. The “Tōkyō Shimbun” newspaper assigned more than one page to
their coverage. Their backgrounds were investigated and their stories published. In
this way warnings were made of any counterfeit people darkly intent on fraud.
Furthermore no attempt was made by the ‘Kawakamis’ to refute the articles. They
quietly undertook as many publicity stunts as they could.

On the basis of the relationship between Yoda Gakkai and the Kawakami faction
‘Details from the last days of the Revered Kusunoki’ (Renshi Kusunoki) was
performed and though they felt much dissatisfaction with its relationship to
conventional Kabuki Gakkai managed to in some strange way get it included.
However it would seem that trouble came with this with them saying that amongst
other things Gakkai’s conduct was insincere and, saying that he was too quick
tempered, suddenly and completely they broke off relations with him. As a
consequence they thought that operating a New Drama Company (Shingeki Dan)
would help them to take an idealistic opposing position. As a result of some effort
and support the so called Seibi Company acting troupe came into existence. The
company started on stage with Ii Yōhō who was joined by the artist Mizuno Yoshimi
who laid down his artist’s brush in order to be able to participate. Gakkai commented
that an onnagata female role specialist really would be required and so they were
joined instead on stage by the actress Chitose Beiba and also by the Kabuki actress
Ichikawa Kumehachi who was also known as Morizumi Gekka. Their first stage work
opened in October Meiji 24 (1891) at the Azumaza Theatre in Asakusa Park. The
Kabuki play performed was the so called modern story ‘The Heart-warming Tale of a
Lady’s Honour in Party Politics’ (Seitō Bidan Shukujo no Misao’, by Yoda Gakkai).
The results weren’t too bad. Thankfully the Kawakami faction did not, to popular
feeling, attend the performance.

Even though this was the way the situation appeared another isolated event
occurred in the spring of the following year Meiji 25 (1892). The Kawakami faction
was at the Ichimuraza Theatre in the Saruwaka Machi neighbourhood. The first play
‘The True Account of the Misfortune of Mr. Itagaki’ (Itagaki Kun Sōnan Jikki) was a
triumph and the performance continued with, suitably, the scene ‘The master is
beyond hope (dead), I was wounded’ (Danna wa ikenai, watashi wa tekizu)* from the
play The Kumamoto Shinpūren Rebellion (Shinpūren no Sōdō aka Shinpūren no
ran). The popularity of this play was increasingly apparent and though generally it

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was considered visually unorthodox the dramatization was good. For once this kind
of thing proved to be very popular, to such a degree that all the theatres were
packed to capacity, so that from one perspective one wondered what kind of thing
one was watching. On a rainy day in mid-May I went to the Nakamuraza Theatre and
saw the play ‘The Master is Beyond Hope (dead)’ (Danna wa Ikenai). It really wasn’t
very good. As a Kabuki play it was agreeable as well as the acting. Its popular
appeal was as a consequence of its speciality subject and as such played to the
gallery. Truthfully it wasn’t something that should have been staged and I was
extremely and unpleasantly irritated. Nevertheless on that Sunday there had been a
full house. I unexpectedly harboured some ill will about this and so the next day
when I went to work I immediately wrote a review. The review that I wrote at work
was written as infuriated criticism. The title of the piece was Infuriated Criticism of the
Nakamuraza Theatre in which I vehemently denounced Kawakami’s drama. Such
drama was watched by people with pleasure and it is regrettable that in those
circumstances this was written. I was young in years and in those circumstances the
article was considered contrary and to be counter propaganda and wasn’t used.

Shinpūren no ran – Attack on Major General Taneda Masaaki

* Translator’s note: refers to an episode of the Shinpūren Rebellion when, after
Taneda had been killed, his mistress Kokatsu ran to the Kumamato telegraph office
and sent the telegram to her parents saying ‘the master is beyond hope (dead), I
was wounded’

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Part 20 Korean Official Objection

The Entertainment Association of Japan (Nippon Engei Kyōhai) –‘The Taiko
Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Korean War Chronicle’ (Taikō Gunki Chōsen no Maki) – The
Loyalty and Bravery of the Conqueror of the East - Author’s Room Salary - Script
Fees for ‘Hirano Jirō’ (Translator’s note: About an anti-foreign samurai from Hakata)

I previously wrote about the Theatre Reform Movement (Engeki Kairyō Kai) and
though the birth of the Japan Entertainment Association (Nippon Engei Kyōhai) is
another thing they sometimes jointly organised performances. For two days, on the
27th – 28th October Meiji 24 (1891), a drama convention took place at Torigoe’s
Nakamuraza Theatre. The actors Ichikawa Danjūrō IX and Onoe Kikugorō V and
their clans joined up with the previous generation’s Bandō Shūchō to form a large
troupe of actors. The Kabuki plays performed were first, ‘Izumi Saburō’ (Translator’s
note: given Kido’ later comments in this chapter this might possibly refer to a Kabuki
adaptation of Izumigajō, Izumi’s Fortress), and the second was ‘Yoshitsune and the
Thousand Cherry Trees’ (Yoshitsune Senbon Zakura). What the theme of the
convention was and how the selection of ‘Thousand Cherry Trees’ (Senbon Zakura)
fitted in with it isn’t known. Perhaps this was Kikugorō’s selection for the theatre
programme. Nevertheless the Sushiya scene (from Yoshitsune Senbon Zakura) was
performed though in the circumstances in line with theatre reform Osato’s
introductory passage was omitted; something which was heavily publicised.

It was said that in the circumstances the inclusion of ‘Thousand Cherry Trees’
(Senbon Zakura) was unexceptional. To begin with it was decided to perform
Miyazaki Sanmai’s new production of the shigeki historical drama ‘Izumi Saburō’ in
three acts which was also written with Kawatake Shinshichi (Kawatake Mokuami's
stage name). I was informed that Mr. Miyazaki was in those days employed as a
novelist for the ‘Tōkyō Asahi Shimbun’ newspaper company. Accordingly Danjūrō
was named on behalf of the Association to play the focal role of ‘Izumi Saburō’ and it
was advocated that it be played after the manner of the Theatre Reform Movement
(Engeki Kairyō Kai). Danjūrō’s clan was in charge of ‘Izumi Saburō’ whilst, joined on
stage by the Kikugorō clan, the reverse was true of ‘Thousand Cherry Trees’
(Senbon Zakura). The pair of them were both confrontational towards each other
over the form that would be used. As a consequence it was subsequently implied
that Kikugorō was hostile to and bore a grudge against Drama Reform (Engeki
Kairyō). Firstly he took exception to and disliked the person overseeing the
production of shigeki historical drama (Ichikawa Danjūrō IX). Secondly it was
rumoured, and I was exclusively told, that he and his clan were completely obligated
to ‘Thousand Cherry Trees’ (Senbon Zakura). I don’t know what was actually true.
Furthermore such public rumours were thought to have been made up. What was
clear was that in their differing approaches Danjūrō was innovative whilst Kikugorō
was conservative.

My recollection at this point is that in those days external writers’ scripts were used
to stages performances. No more than two or three appeared which included the
independent scholar Yoda Gakkai’s ‘The Priest Mongaku’s Subscription List)
(Mongaku Kanjinchō) and Kawajiri Hōshin’’s ‘The Sacred Precincts of Umeda Shrine’
(Umeda no Kamigaki). The independent scholar Fukuchi Ōchi was the Kabukiza
Theatre’s special star talent. Of course ‘Izumi Saburō’ wasn’t usually seen in the

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theatre world. That as a layman he was honoured with writing this for the stage was
something exceptional and drew the attention of the public. Furthermore the Kabuki
plays adapted by the authors were performed instead of in their original conventional
forms. It has been a long time since they have been performed, forty years roughly
speaking. If the impression is given that I am unable to supress my emotions it’s
because in the meantime consideration has been given to the changes in their
content between then and now. In the spring of Meiji 39 (1906) ‘Izumi Saburō’ was
performed by the previous generation Kataoka Ichizō IV who was at the time
Kataoka Jūzō IV and who had, at that time, triumphantly returned from the Russo-
Japanese War (Nichirosensō). Now Matsumoto Kōshirō VII and, in place of his
father, Kataoka Ichizō V have together reprized the performance at the Kabukiza
Theatre.

As I recall the performance of ‘Izumi Saburō’ was repeated the following month at
the Kabukiza Theatre. It had already played there before alongside Yoshitsune’s
Letter from Koshigoe (Yoshitsune Koshigoe Jō), though there wasn’t a reason for a
relationship between it and ‘Izumi Saburō’. Yet it still appeared and was, according to
the Society, much loved. However, at the beginning it wasn’t this play that had
originally been chosen to be performed at the Kabukiza Theatre. The original
programme at the opening event was first the independent scholar Ōchi’s work ‘The
Taikō’s Korean War Chronicles‘ (Taikō Gunki Chōsen no Maki) in five acts. Second
was ‘‘The Battle of Takada no Baba’ (Takada no Baba), and the last piece of the day
was to have been ‘Snow, Moon and Flowers’ (Setsugetsuka) a jōruri sung narrative
with shamisen. In the fifth act of the first play the Queen and Prince of Korea are
prisoners of war in the battle camp alongside another prisoner of war, Korea’s brave
General Who Attacks the East, Envoy Count Nei. Amongst the enemy there is a
confrontation between the ruler and ruled. Katō Kiyomasa was played by Danjūrō,
the Queen was played by the previous generation’s Bandō Shūchō II, and Count Nei
was played by Ichikawa Yaozō VII. The author formulated the play to prominently
reflect the proven dignity and bravery of Count Nei, a role that in those days proved
to be a popular one for Yaozō to play.

Fighting hard Count Nei is bound with ropes and the Queen falls prostrate. Defeated
their suffering and disgrace was indiscreetly put on display for which an apology was
made. Quite literally the setting, watched through tears, was really tragic though it
also received the most popular acclaim. Half way through the performance run an
objection was submitted to the theatre world about the play by the Ministry of Foreign
Affairs at the Korean Legation; though it is a historical fact that the Queen and Prince
of one’s own country were prisoners of war the consequence of depicting this in a
public performance on stage is disagreeable and that a suspension of this adaptation
would be preferable. Previously it was stated that the author showed favour to the
Korean side in the production of this scene. The issue which resulted in the protest
was really in regard to a desire not to have the Queen and Prince portrayed. In the
circumstances the situation was eventually resolved in a compromise with a decision
to withdraw the one act. Instead of amending the act it was necessary to improvise
and it was substituted with ‘Yoshitsune’s Letter from Koshigoe’ (Koshigoe Jō). Gotō
was played by Danjūrō, the woman at the barrier gate by Shūchō, and Izumi Saburō
was played by Yaozō. Here again the situation came about where Izumi Saburō was
also seen on stage.

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For the play Danjūrō was to have played three roles, Kiyomasa, the Taikō and the
boatman Yojibei. Almost invariably these roles to which he was strongly suited were
suspended without being performed on stage. Of course any expectation that was
had did not suffer as the other performances were of quality and remain in my
memory. ‘Snow, Moon and Flowers’ (Setsugetsuka) was a jōruri sung narrative with
shamisen. Snow (Setsu) was the conventional Nunozarashi (which depicts
nunozarashi, washing of cloth at Uji-gawa River), something which wasn’t
particularly unusual.

Nunozarashi by Horimasa

Moon (Getsu) was Nakakuni from “Tale of the Heike“ (Heike Monogatari – Nakakuni
from the Tale of the Heike was one of Ichikawa Danjūrō IX’s Shin-kabuki
Jūhachiban, favourite thirty-two plays) and Flowers (Ka) was ‘The Madman of Mt.
Kōya‘ (Kōya Monogurui). They were all the works of the independent scholar Ōchi.
Nakakuni was of course played by Danjūrō, lady in waiting Kogō by Shūchō and the
dear wife Reizei by Shinzō. In ‘The Madman of Mt. Kōya’ (Kōya Monogurui) Takashi
no Shirō was played by Danjūrō, the child Tatsuwaka by Metora. The best by far was
Nakakuni who, remaining vividly in my memory, was portrayed wearing a stick and
an eboshi court cap on which was a rising Sagano moon. There is no need to reflect
on Danjūrō in the roles of Benkei, Sukeroku, Kiyomasa, Ieyasu and Kōchiyama when
in this one role as Nakakuni Danjūrō was honoured with the title of master of
excellence. I also thought at the time that Shinzō’s Reizei also was good.

The Kinkodo Book Company published one copy of each of the performances of
‘The Taikō’s Korean War Chronicles’ (Taikō Gunki Chōsen no Maki) and ‘Snow,
Moon and Flowers’ (Setsugetsuka). Who it was that transcribed ‘Snow, Moon and
Flowers’ (Setsugetsuka) is not known. The transcription of the ‘The Taikō’s Korean
War Chronicles’ (Taikō Gunki Chōsen no Maki) was undertaken by the Kabukiza
Theatre’s author Takeshiba Kenji (aka Enokido Kenji). The printers circulated the
processed manuscript bound in book form to the independent scholar Ōchi for
proofing. Kenji was expected to take responsibility for the second act and I was
expected to take responsibility for the third act for which I was provided with a clean
copy. Kenji’s work for the theatre was hectic and as a consequence I was to
undertake responsibility for the prologue and the fourth act. This all had to be
completed so that it could be printed before the opening event at the Kabukiza
Theatre. As we were all working during the day at the newspaper company in the
evening we started work on the proofing at around eight o’clock. Of course this took
all night and the following morning when I had proofed more than one hundred
pages Ōchi, the independent scholar, thoroughly examined it before taking it away.
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‘And you? The penmanship is somewhat awkward, and in such a hurried situation it
was certainly rushed wasn’t it. Even now some of your writing is good…’, he said
laughingly. Nevertheless we weren’t involved in the later proofing, my penmanship
was still too awkward. To make matters worse what was hurriedly written in those
days disappeared, and has been irredeemably lost.

Around that time according to what Mr. Kenji said the salary for occupying the
author’s room was in total four hundred and fifty yen. Out of that he sent two hundred
yen to Honjo, about one hundred yen was the standing playwright’s temple donation,
and the remaining one hundred and fifty yen was shared between the rest of us. The
going rate for the rank of grand nadai, chief actor, was increased from one hundred
and fifty yen to two hundred yen which wasn’t much to take home in those days.
Compared to the salary of the person occupying the author’s room it was very cheap
and perhaps inappropriate. What they get nowadays I don’t know.

Anyway speaking of two hundred yen at the time it was rather a large amount of
money. Still, the payment for the manuscript was, without a doubt, expensive. In
spring of the following year Kawakami Otojirō performed ‘Hirano Jirō’ at the
Nakamuraza Theatre and had made a request to the independent scholar Ōchi to
draft the script for that scene. He was particularly busy at the time and wasn’t
particularly feeling very positive towards Shosei Shibai and declined. Kawakami
pleaded with easy flattery trying to get him not to withdraw. He ultimately found the
situation difficult though his request for a manuscript fee of two hundred yen was
only a temporary concern. He believed that the proposal was unreasonable and
because of this it was said that it wasn’t surprising that he seemed to be undecided.
Indeed, in his dealings with Kawakami his demeanour seemed surprisingly
unconcerned (I’m not sure if he was just carefully feigning indifference) when asked
if his script could be used he responded briefly but realising how impossible the
situation had become he relented and he undertook the writing of the script for the
six acts. Kawakami later paid the aforementioned script fee even though at the time
two hundred yen seemed something of an indulgence, which at the time it was. One
thing that came out of this was that overall the tendency was to come to a
satisfactory resolution. And it was done quite quickly and that Kawakami was won
over seemed to be exceptionally unusually.

Kawakami’s Shosei Shibai faction gradually emerged and were brought along.
Furthermore Wakamiya Manjirō and Yamaguchi Sadao’s factions also turned up.
They were one aspect of the actual picture and though they wished for quality the
other feature was that the drama they performed was really very artificial and
incoherent. Besides which they couldn’t be taken seriously on the Kabuki stage as
they soon came to blows goading each other to fight and when that happened it went
on for some time. In those days the Shosei tried to be different and mostly wore dark
blue Konsaguri clothing with white dots including their belts, with their haori formal
coats worn over the top. The consequence of this was that this sort of flamboyance,
along with their unusual speeches, was generally felt to be very enjoyable. Where
ever he went Kawakami boldly wore the same kasuri dotted pattern and tight
trousers as at the time it wasn’t fashionable to wear hakama pleated trousers so they
dressed casually in their tight trousers. Another affectation for them was for them to
all wear Satsuma geta clogs.

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I occasionally visited the home of Ōchi the independent scholar and in the untidy
foyer there were Satsuma geta clogs all lined up. I pondered to whom they might
belong and guessed that whoever it was they were conducting a business meeting
about the script of ‘Hirani Jirō’. Kawakami had arrived.

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Part 21 Meiji 26 (1893) – Meiji 27 (1894) Looking Back

Mokuami Dies – Kakitsu’s Death – The Indignation of an Author and Actor – The
Meijiza Theatre Established – Opening the Doors after New Year’s Week

Things declined in the year between Meiji 26 (1893) and Meiji 27 (1894) in Tōkyō’s
theatre world though, in my own way, I should be able to remember the many events
that occurred. At 3:30 on the afternoon of January 22 nd Meiji 26 (1893) a fire broke
out and spread from Asakusa’s Nishi (West) Torigoe-chō Street. The Torigoeza
Theatre, which was formerly the Nakamuraza Theatre, also caught fire. In recent
years customers had begun to drift away and managing the theatre had become a
somewhat difficult situation that was just about to be passed on. Furthermore with
this unforeseen accident the Grand Theatre, to which was owed a debt of gratitude,
was completely destroyed.

Coincidentally, at around about the same time, the seventy eight year old Kawatake
Mokuami’s life came to an end at his home in Honjo District’s Minami (South)
Futaba-chō Street. It was a chilly Sunday and a cold, strong, dry wind was blowing.

Around that time, though newspapers were usually published without interruption, on
Monday publication was suspended. I was at the time living in Kyōbashi’s
Sanjikkenhori. I knew that the Torigoeza Theatre had caught fire in the middle of the
day and when I arrived at work on the Monday I became aware that Mokuami had
died. Around that time no news story about this was published by “Tōkyō Nichinichi
Shimbun”. As a consequence news from the Diplomatic Correspondent (Gaikō
Kisha) was not published either. It was in the middle of a telephone call with the
Yamato Shimbun newspaper company that the situation was outlined to me. The
venerable old gentleman passed away at 4:25 in the afternoon. The funeral service
was planned for (January) 25th when a temporary burial would take place at
Asakusa’s Gentsūji Temple. Furthermore on that day the appointed person would
conduct the formal funeral ceremony. I was the person who would be attending both
as a private person and as a representative of the Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun
newspaper company. I was certainly expected, and it was my intention, to attend the
formal funeral. However, two or three days later I was on the phone again to Jōno
Saigiku at the Yamato Shimbun newspaper company making enquiries about the
venerable old gentleman when I learned from him that the funeral had been
postponed. I was not given to understand the reasons why. So then on the 1 st
February an article under the title ‘Mokuami Yuigon’ (Testament of Mokuami) was
published by “Kabuki Shinpō” newspaper.

A consideration, with regard to the formal funeral ceremony, though it should
traditionally be held seven days after death at a Buddhist Temple, so that the cost
should not be wasted and that the appointed date be established and is convenient
should circumstances require it the date may be extended into the customary forty
nine day phase after death

As mentioned in the letter containing my late father’s last wishes the start of the
temporary burial service should begin summarily the day after his death at which
point the date for the formal funeral ceremony and so on will be in effect something
which, with respect, yesterday it was not possible to do. Following the occasion of

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the temporary burial a date will, with respect, be guaranteed on a fixed date once an
application has been made and the date has been established. Please accept my
apologies that, as a consequence, the aforementioned is dependent on what is
respectfully permitted and agreed for my lately deceased father. In this vein I will be
pleased to serve notification on the aforementioned itinerary together with my
gratitude for having the honour to be able to offer and affirm my service.

*Translator’s note: Kawatake Mokuami’s real name was Yoshimura Yoshisaburō.
Yoshimura Ito was Kawatake Mokuami’s daughter. She took as her husband
Kawatake Shigetoshi, Kawatake Mokuami’s adoptive heir, a professor at Waseda
University and a researcher of drama.

What I heard about it was that generally there was a lot of enthusiasm about the
showy manner of the matter of the venerable old man’s testament. That it stould to
reason was what I also thought. I wrote an article ‘Meiji Igo no Yo Okina’ (A very
venerable old man: the Meiji from now on) based on the subject matter, something
which I doubt very much would be repeated today. Its forty years since that
venerable old man died and much has changed in the world of the theatre. What’s
more they were powerful pieces that were devised by that venerable old man to be
produced on the Kabuki stage. The adaptations from the Bunraku puppet theatre
plays (Takemoto Geki) that were adapted to our world of Kabuki set him apart, a
world which would have otherwise quite possibly have ended up being without such
material. Of course it’s not possible to know, and is a matter of some conjecture,
how much longer he will retain such influence. More than forty years after his death
the extent of his influence is still being felt. Our country’s playwright is said to be a
unique example of excellence. Unconditionally and unequivocally I kneel to this very
venerable old man, though that being said I certainly wouldn’t look up to him with
regard to his style and sense of dress.

The spirit of Torigoeza Theatre had been destroyed by fire. Later that year, on 28th
March at 6.50pm, both Shitaya Nichō Machi (Theatre Street) and the Ichimuraza
Theatre were burnt down. My home was lost in the disastrous raging fire and Izumi-
chō’s Tōdō mansion (in Tōkyō’s Chiyoda District’s Kanda area) caught fire from the
large flames that spread from next door. The Ichimuraza Theatre was moved from
Motochi’s Saruwaka-chō and in November that year an opening ceremony was
conducted to inaugurate the new building. The cast for the spectacular opening
performance included Ichikawa Sadanji I, Ichikawa Gonjūrō, and Bandō Kakitsu I.
The first act was ‘The Seven Spears of Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s Bodyguard of Generals
at the Battle of Shizugatake’ (Shizugatake no shichi hon yari), and the second act
was ‘Matsuda’s Revenge’ (Matsuda no Adauchi). What stood out from the ashes of
that year was the incident which resulted in the sudden passing of the Torigoeza
Theatre, something which is sadly mourned.

Though soon to be lost, earlier that March the Ichimuraza Theatre’s entertainment
had included Sadanji and Kakitsu’s acting troupes. They performed ‘Kondō Jūzō‘*
(aka Yamabiraki Meguro no Shinfuji) and the Koto interrogation scene from ‘Akoya’

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scene (the third act of Dan no Ura Kabuto Gunki). In the middle of the performance
run Kakitsu suddenly became ill and died.

*Translator’s note: Meguro Shinfuji was a new miniature replica of Mount Fuji which
was built in Meguro a suburb of Tōkyō.

Meguro Fujizaka by Utagawa Hiroshige, April 1857

Miniature replicas of Mount Fuji were called fujizuka. The one in Meguro was about
15 metres high and was complete with a Shintō Torii at its base and a zig zag path to
a shrine at the top imitating the paths on the slopes of the real Mount Fuji. It was built
in 1819 on land belonging to Kondo Juzō, an explorer of Hokkaido and a hatamato.
In 1826 he was involved in a land dispute with a man called Hannosuke, the owner
of a teahouse that was located in the area at the base of Meguro Shinfuji . He took
the case to court and won. Hannosuke made threats and as a consequence Kondo’s
son Tomizo, to avenge his father’s honour, attacked Hannosuke killing seven
members of the family. Tomizo was exiled to Hokkaido and Kondo was exiled to
Ōmizo Domain and place under house arrest in the care of the Lord of that Domain,
Mitsuyasu Wakebe, who treated him with the utmost respect. The story was adapted
by Takeshiba Kisui for the Kabuki stage in a play entitled ‘The Incident at the foot of
Meguro’s New Miniature Mountain’ (山開目黒新富士 Yamabiraki Meguro no Shinfuji).

Yamabiraki Meguro no Shinfuji (aka Kondō Jūzō) being performed by Ichikawa Sadanji I at the Ichimuraza Theatre in March
1893, by Kunichika

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Unfortunately after the performance had been suspended and the theatre closed
whilst discussions were taking place about what to do about continuing the
performance run the theatre world was hit by disaster when the theatre was burnt
down by the fire and turned into a pile of rubble. Kakitsu was Onoe Kikugorō V’s
younger brother and the adoptive father of Ichimura Uzaemon XV. He had a large
oval shaped face and a soft tone of voice which also earned him the nickname of
“hato poppo” (Translator’s note: ‘pigeons cooing’ – from a children’s’ nursery rhyme
about pigeons). He was called one of the greatest soft wagoto style actors of his day.
He most certainly ranked alongside the great and famous Dankikusa (trilogy of
famous actors, Ichikawa Danjūrō IX, Onoe Kikugorō V and Ichikawa Sadanji I). Now
Uzaemon has become famous, especially for the role of Kirare Yosaburō (aka Kirare
Yosa), his forte. This was something for which it wasn’t necessary to be grateful to
his father for. Previously I mentioned that I had been at the Kotobukiza Theatre
where I had seen Kakitsu’s Yosaburō, Sawamura Gennosuke IV’s Otomi, and
Dengorō’s Kōmori Yasu, roles of distinctive character with which they were
particularly identified. Kakitsu carried himself naturally and tenderly in his
performance as Yosaburō, something which others were unable to achieve. His
older brother Kikugorō also played the role of Yosaburō at the Kabukiza Theatre
though his performance fell short of his younger brother’s expectations. In his last
years Kakitsu excelled in his soft wagoto style of acting and also he chose, to
popular acclaim, to perform the roles of Kumagai (Kumagai Jinya is the final scene
of act two of Ichi no Tani Futaba Gunki), Fukashichi (from Mikasayama Goten, the
fourth act of An Exemplary Tale of Womanly Virtue, Imoseyama Onna Teikin), and
Ōoka Echizen no Kami (aka Ōoka Tadasuke) all in the style of Danjūrō. With his
sympathetic style of acting he soon became a prominent figure. It was extremely
unlucky that he passed away at the age of forty seven from acute peritonitis.

It was just before the end of March when both Mokuami and Kakitsu were taken from
us and two Grand Theatres were burnt down. Without a doubt it was one of the
unluckiest years for the world of Kabuki. But there was yet more dreadful bad luck.
On the 25th January, as he was starting out on a performance tour, whilst performing
in the play Hōkaibō in an aerial chūnori acrobatic stunt in Mino Province’s city of
Tajimi Nakamura Shikan fell and sprained his right foot. Fortunately he completely
recovered though later on he found that the range of motion in his foot had become
limited. Unfortunately, he subsequently had to take care on stage so he didn’t
damage it any further.

That year Danjūrō, Ichikawa Gonjūrō, Fukusuke, and Kataoka Ichizō III were cast in
a performance run which opened at the Kabukiza Theatre. If I’m not mistaken I
remember it opened around September 25th. While today all the theatres arrange for
their cast lists to be published at the beginning of every month at that time this didn’t
happen until between the middle to the end of the month which wasn’t very good.
They habitually pleased themselves when they would do this. Every year they were
published with insufficient frequency. For today’s opening events these are, almost
without fail, published every month. Since the Taishō Era, if the performance runs
take place four or five times a year there hasn’t been a problem publishing these
articles on the first day of each month.

It was customary for the first three days of the performance run to be invited along to
watch with the drama critics from all the newspapers. Though I didn’t make it along

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on the appointed day the Kabuki plays that were performed were first of all the
independent scholar Ōchi’s ‘Ōkubo Hikozaemon’. Then the middle act was
‘‘Kagekiyo on Hiūgajima Island” (Hiūgajima no Kagekiyo), and the second act was
‘Kagekiyo and his Daughter’ (Musume Kagekiyo Yashima Nikki). For the first act
nothing much happened. However, during the second act a lot of disturbance and
noise was made by the critics from the writers’ guild, who were sitting in the west
sajiki gallery. Up to that point the Kagekiyo that had been performed was the
traditional version but this performance was an over extended revision (I don’t know
who had done the revision, perhaps the independent scholar Ōchi). Clearly I wasn’t
in a position, until I saw this latest version of Kagekiyo, to be able to say anything.
That day was the death anniversary of Komatsu Daifu (Taira no Shigemori).
Buddhist mortuary tablets were carried out on stage and a long speech was made.
Standing alone on the stage the person taking the lead wasn’t blind to what was
going on as he made his excessively long speech. How long Danjūrō hogged the
stage, something which really tormented the audience. And yet, while they kept
quietly watching, the experts in the west sajiki gallery were extremely unhappy.
Gradually from about mid-way through the speech they started to create an uproar
and en masse started to shout and harangue. They started banging the sajiki gallery
hand rail and eventually began shouting and jeering. Such a disturbance was
unprecedented. Others in the audience were also getting wound up. Though I didn’t
actually witness this I was told that in the circumstances what happened was
unreasonable. I understand from what was said to me that since the start of the
customary invitations issued to drama critics that this was a most unusual
occurrence.

In spite of this the actual performance of the middle act continued in silence. Danjūrō
was indignant. Furthermore the independent scholar Ōchi straight away drafted a
lengthy article which was published in the “Chūō Shimbun” newspaper. As a
consequence all the newspaper drama critics, without apologising, drafted letters
arguing that it was boring. The reviews, both good and bad, were freely published.
However, amongst regular theatre goers there was uproar and a fuss was made that
their experience of the play was interrupted. The majority of the audience made an
issue of this and that it had been futile to continue watching because of the ill-
mannered loutish behaviour which had been completely abusive. Though the theatre
critics, for their part, fought back they lost the argument and were eventually obliged
to apologise. As far as I am aware this only ever happened on that one occasion and
was something which had never happened before or happened since.

That year the newly built Meijza Theatre was completed. When it was previously
known as the Chitoseza Theatre it had burnt down in May of Meiji 23 (1890) after
which, until its new construction, it had remained closed. The opening event
ceremony was planned for 1st November (1893). The Kabuki plays were ‘The Battle
of Ishibashiyama‘ (Ishibashiyama), ‘Kumagai at the Fan Shop‘ (Ōgiya Kumagai) and
‘The Diary of Toyama, the Tenpō Era Cherry Blossom Tattooed Magistrate‘
(Tōyamazakura Tenpō Nikki).

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The Kabuki actors Ichikawa Kodanji in the role of Yuten (right), Ichikawa Danjūrō IX in the role of Fudō Myōō (centre) and
Ichikawa Sadanji in the role of Ikuta Sumidayu (left) in the scene 'Fudo Reigen no ba' (The Miraculous Manifestation of Fudo)
from the play 'Toyama Zakura Tenpō Nikki', performed at the Meijiza Theatre in November 1893

The cast included, from Sadanji’s guild of actors, Gonjūrō and Danjūrō, who also
performed in the middle act as Kumagai and in the second act as Fudō Myōō. The
theatre was owned by Sadanji whose entire guild gathered together and as it was
called the Meijiza Theatre they called themselves the Meijiza Guild.

The Nakamuraza and Ichimuraza Theatres were lost to Tōkyō’s theatrical world.
Subsequently their loss was made a little easier to bear with the appearance of the
Meijiza Theatre. As a consequence of this it is noted that at that time the names of
the grand and minor theatres were:

In comparison, the Meijiza Theatre was 10 sen cheaper than the Kabukiza Theatre
for a sajiki gallery room, a takadoma dirt floor box, a hiradoma central floor box in
front of the stage, and the Kabukiza Theatre was cheaper than the Meijiza Theatre
by 5 sen for single seats*

It would seem that the Meijiza theatre was, overall, the cheaper of the two when
comparing similar entrance fees though if there was some sort of competition going
on it was kept quiet. What the living costs were for people in those days I am unable
to hazard a guess. Then the people who were watching performance were squeezed
for viewing taxes, though I don’t know whether the show manager paid taxes as well
as the audience.

*Translator’s note: Kido calculates the difference for single seats as 2 sen which,
according to the prices he shows was actually 5 sen

For the opening events both at ten o’clock on the morning of 12th January (1894) the
Kabuki plays performed at the Kabukiza Theatre were…

…and at the Meijiza Theatre was the full length Kabuki play (tōshi kyōgen) version of
‘The Date Disturbance‘ (Date Sōdō).

Since the Taishō Era it has been the situation that the Grand Theatres would hold
their opening performances immediately after New Year’s Day. They wouldn’t do this
during the Matsunouchi New Year Week’s festivities, though the Grand theatres
would keep an eye out for visitor numbers in order to plan for their arrangements for
the New Year. They weren’t able to produce plays for theatre goers to see during the
Matsunouchi New Year Week’s festivities. Though these opening events would not
take place before then they would take place, at the earliest, eight days afterwards.
Most minor koshibai plays opened on New Year’s Eve and from New Year’s Day
would reduce their prices. This was the reason that was given for the Grand
Theatres’ opposition to opening their performances at that time so that in order for it
to be pleasant they didn’t attract other lower class visitors.

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Part 22 Meiji 26 (1893) – Meiji 27 (1894) Looking Forward

Puppet Plays – Dream World – The First Sino-Japanese War – Asakusaza Theatre’s
Full House – Establishing the Basis of Shosei Shibai’s Social and Political Drama –
Kabuki on the Losing Side

This is only a short discourse about the Ningyō Shibai puppet shows (later called
Bunraku). There were two troupes from the provinces of Yūki and Satsuma which
have since disappeared. Unfortunately the only place in Tōkyō where the Ningyō
Shibai puppet show could be seen was in one music hall in particular. Even though
the appearance of the show was limited to one particular music hall in Tōkyō the
puppeteers called Yoshida Kunigorō III and Nishikawa Isaburō V were very skilful.
Two women puppeteers who were also very skilful were Nishikawa Junnosuke and
Nishikawa Kinnosuke. Each had their own troupe which worked at the city music hall
bringing the audiences with them. Kunigorō was also popular and whenever he
dragged his book rest out there would be resounding applause. The Bunrakuza
Puppet Theatre was near Saruawaka-machi’s Ichimuraza Theatre. It became
completely derelict and disappeared.

In Meiji 26 (1893) they did the same for the Gidayū (narrator with shamisen
accompaniment) in the Shinseikan Playhouse which was built in Kanda District’s
Nishiki-chō Street. Today it’s a cinema but originally it was the box office for the
puppet theatre. The western Ōsaka Bunraku puppet plays were part of an
enthusiastic competition with those in the west. In Tōkyō principal professional Tayū
narrators were employed to recite alongside the puppeteer clans of Kunigorō and
Isaburō. They did not appear outside of Tōkyō and many opening events flourished. I
would also go along each time. The narrators were excellent, and the use of the
puppets skilful. The small unlicensed Koshibai theatres were all keeping a keen eye
on what was happening. On one such occasion in February Meiji 27 (1894) when on
my day off I idled away the time watching the performances of the two plays,
‘Sakaro’ (accompanied by the Tayū narrator Ayase) and ‘Horikawa’ (accompanied by
the Tayū narrator Harima) for the first time I heard the Tayū narrators. Every day the
theatre was packed to the rafters. On one occasion ‘Mount Imo and Mount Se: A
Tale of Exemplary Womanhood’ (Imoseyama) was played out on two stages. For the
puppets portraying the Daihanji family the puppeteer was Kunigorō and the Tayū
narrator was Ayase. For the puppet of the widow Sadaka (the mother of Hinadori)
the puppeteer was Isaburō and the Tayū narrator was Harima and on that occasion
there was also a full house.

The point is that around Meiji 27 (1894) was the golden age of puppet theatre though
after that this popularity gradually faded and it was only popular for about four or five
years more which, with the exception of Yūki Magosaburō IX’s puppet shows, then
went into decline. The same thing happened to the music hall and puppet shows no
longer appeared. The puppet shows ended with the changing tastes of Tōkyōites
who in one word, hastily, put an end to the appearance of the puppet shows when
they became unsuited to their tastes and were spurned. They were indisposed
towards the puppeteers and considered the puppet plays inferior, putting an end to
them before they had really started. The Tayū narrators’ recitation of the Jōruri sung
narrative was excellent and the puppeteers made the puppets work with such charm,
but it appeared as though the Tōkyō audiences had begun to lose their appreciation

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of such things as the Gidayū chanters along with the appearance of the puppets
which ceased. I suppose for example that as it was perceived that the puppets
couldn’t imbue the play ‘The Love Suicide of Oshun and Dembei’ (Oshun Dembei),
and likewise ‘Horikawa’, with the humanity that that audiences seemed to generally
appreciate, though it didn’t dissuade them from continuing to watch the plays being
performed by living actors. I certainly couldn’t say that I would never consider puppet
plays in the same light. I had seen the Bunraku puppet plays in Ōsaka only twice and
my impression was that the performances lacked spirit. For my part I still had a
preference for, and missed somewhat, Tōkyō’s Shinseikan rather than Ōsaka’s
Bunraku.

I was inclined to go to the Shinseikan Playhouse quite often. It was painted all over
in gaudy colours and the main attractions there were the silent movies which I didn’t
see. Of course no electric trains in that neighbourhood passed the playhouse though
they did go to the corner of a side street near one corner of the Shinseikan
Playhouse. In this quiet neighbourhood there was a shrine with a lawn. There were
many poles on which banners were loosely blowing in the spring breeze.
Everywhere there were homes with gardens where hibiscus were growing and white
cherry blossoms bloomed. At the time I was wearing in public a fashionable
deerstalker hat. The banners were flapping as I walked along. I was quietly watching
puppets dancing up and down on stage. From where I am now I think of this as the
perfect world of dreams. Is it just me that’s lost? I’m dwelling in that time forty years
ago in a universe that is a world of dreams, aren’t you?

In July that year the First Sino-Japanese War broke out. Being something of great
importance it became part of the recorded history of our theatre. The stranglehold on
related political and social drama held by the actors troupes associated with Shosei
Shibai, Sōshi Shibai and Oppeke Shibai, what is called Shin Engeki (New Drama),
was being increasingly broken. With this war conventional Kabuki actors were in
tough competition with Shosei Shibai, in which they ended up letting themselves
down.

At the same time as the war both Grand and Minor Theatres were in competition with
the performances of their war plays. While this was going on the shrewd Kawakami
Otojirō grasped his opportunity and in September at the Asakusaza Theatre he
appeared in a war play. Japanese newspaper reporters were prisoners of war. As
the principal actor after the performance of Ri Kōshō (aka Itō Hirobumi and Ri
Kōshō, a later revised version by Nakamura Kichizō premiered at the Kabukiza
Theatre in June 1933) he made a loud speech about this before leaving the stage
saying that some newspapers weren’t publishing war reports or theatre reviews, only
idealised popular front page seasonal articles. Kawakami and Fujisawa Asajirō were
dressed up as newspaper reporters. Takada Minoru (the tough man actor and
director of Shinpa, New Drama) was extremely popular in his role as Ri Kōshō (Li
Hongzhang, the Chinese Chief Minister). The actors Mizuno Kōbi and Ii Yōhō also
participated. During the battle scene they fired guns at Nanjing using live ammunition
and launched exploding fireworks. The audience was in danger and frightened; it
was a huge success.

One by many of the small unlicensed koshibai theatres copied and laid on
performances of these war plays. Though it almost never happened they did also

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eventually surface at the Grand Theatres. New productions of war plays were
performed at the Meijiza Theatre in October and at the Kabukiza Theatre in
November. The performance at the Meijiza Theatre was ‘The Souvenir from Aizu’
(Aizu Miyage, aka The Meiji Box from Aizu, Aizusan Meiji Kumijū 会津産明治組重) by
Takeshiba Kisui. This was a tōshi kyōgen full length play which serialised the earlier
Meiji Restoration’s Aizu War and the First Sino-Japanese War contrasting both
conflicts, the older with the modern. In the play it was interesting to see the Tsukiji
Chinese (the Chinese Consulate was located in Tsukiji). Sadanji played a Chinese
and Bandō Shūchō II his wife, both of which were popular roles. Unfortunately the
interesting pivotal scene of the section of the play about the First Sino-Japanese War
was spoiled by the appearance of too many soldiers.

The play performed at the Kabukiza theatre was ‘The Rising Sun of the Japanese
Flag Flying over Victories by Land and Sea’ (Kairiku Renshō Asahi Nomihata aka
Hata Kairiku Renshō Nisshōki), a work by the independent scholar Ōchi which was a
dramatisation of the negotiations of Minister Ōtori Keisuke and the storming of the
Genbu Gate in Pyonyang by Harada Jūkichi. Danjūrō played three roles, Minister
Ōtori Keisuke, a sailor on the Government Ship, and Harada Jūkichi’s father and
Kikugorō played Harada Jūkichi. All the way through there wasn’t a single dramatic
scene. At the time the newspapers were prospering from their articles about Harada
Jūkichi, with what was called ‘A Tale of Great Achievement’ (Kōmyō Dan). Without
this it can’t be said for certain how much interest there would otherwise have been.

Unlike today, in those days it was suggested that a battle scene setting was suitable
for every sort of war play but that they weren’t very good as literary works. Each
battle scene that was shown was meaningful. How good or bad those scenes were,
or how skilfully and how meaningfully they were performed, had a direct influence on
whether or not they were deemed a success or a failure and, as a consequence their
future. In those days it was by no means unusual to see all the Kabuki actors
costumed in military or naval uniforms. They were also armed with the familiar tachi
long swords which they used to perform the tachimawari fight scenes though the
bundles of rifles with fixed bayonets were not that familiar. What’s more nowadays
expertise in the sorts of arms carried in such battles remains undeveloped. Of course
the actors involved in the Shosei movement’s political and social genre of drama

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were identically dressed. As an alternative to Kabuki the general public already knew
about this and expected Kabuki actors to be suitably attired in military or naval
uniform when they appeared. As a consequence the usually improbable tachimawari
fight scenes appeared more realistic and in this way the efforts of Shosei
movement’s political and social genre of drama were, for conventional Kabuki,
deemed a complete success.

On the part of Kabuki the outcome for Kabuki’s war plays was disappointing. It
wasn’t possible for both of them, alike in so many ways, to continue with the same
sorts of plays. Subsequently, and in the circumstances, Kabuki continued with more
conventional plays. The Shosei movement of political and social drama didn’t miss
this opportunity and performed war plays one after another. Kawakami Otojirō, in
contrast to conventional Kabuki, performed to popular acclaim at the Asakusaza
Theatre. In any case, before he left for Korea, he approved and commenced the
commission of a planned publicity campaign. In this way plays such as ‘Kawakami
Otojirō Jūgun Nikki’ (Kawakami Otojirō’s Campaign Diary) became the thing to
watch. When for the second time the curtains were raised on his war play at the
Ichimuraza Theatre it was a hit. To what extent was what he took from his
experience on, and fascination with, the real battlefield and put on stage true? Such
a reasonable distinction was unnecessary for the cheering audience.

This political and social genre of drama that Shosei Shibai brought to the stage was
widely accepted by society so that two kinds of drama, Kabuki and Shinpa, were
brought into the sphere of our theatrical world.

The prevalent fashion for plays about the First Sino-Japanese War was in around
Meiji 27 (1894). As one of their drama critics I was writing for the Chūō Shimbun
Newspaper Company. At around that time Chūō Shimbun Newspaper Company was
on the corner of Ginza District’s Owari-chō Street where the Mitsukoshi Department
Store now stands. On another corner, where the Lion Coffee Lounge is now, was
where the tall Tōkyō Mainichi Shimbun Newspaper Company’s building stood. In
October Meiji 26 (1893) I moved from “Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun” to “Chūō
Shimbun”. When I started there Mr. Kobayashi Tenryū who had been managing the
newspaper’s drama critic’s department went to Yorozu Chōhō (Morning News)
Newspaper Company which later on unfortunately let all the drama critics go but it
still held on to the position of influence that its political department reporters held.
About then the popular drama critic at Chūō Shimbun Newspaper Company,
Shinkirō Shuji (aka Kishigami Shikken), changed his name. How well connected he
was I don’t know though I do recall that he was temporarily resident in the Ginza
home of Mr. Tamura Nariyoshi from where he worked.

One thing I do remember about Mr. Kobayashi which has stayed in my memory was
that he was famous for sending a stage curtain to the Kabukiza Theatre. It was for
the performance to mark the O-Bon Festival of the Dead in July Meiji 26 (1893). The
play being performed was San’yūtei Enchō’s tōshi kyōgen full length drama ‘A
Picture Fan of Haruna’s Fragrant Plum Blossom’ (Haruna no Ume Kaoru Uchiwa e
aka Okurezaki Haruna no Ume ga ka, based on the story of Onnaka Sōzaburō).

Onoe Kikugorō V as Mizorogi Kōkichi and Ichikawa Sadanji I as Tsunekawa Sōzaburō in ‘Okurezaki Haruna no Ume ga ka’ at
the Kabukiza Theatre July 1893

This was as well as a middle act play ‘The Riverbank at Daian-ji Temple’ (Daianji
Zutsumi, from A Splendid Revenge by a Man Dressed in Rags, Oriawase/Katakiuchi
tsuzure no nishiki) which was followed by a danmari pantomime in the dark called
‘Tales from the Water Margin’ (Suikoden). Mr. Kobayashi sent the curtain to Chūō
Shimbun Newspaper Company’s Shinkirō Shuji. A consequence of the curtain being
sent by the drama critic to the theatre meant that when the performance run started

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the newspaper company certainly got significantly more advertising. Though the
curtain, as befitting the calico unbleached cotton it was made from, was received
with favourable caution by the audience. Regardless of the fact that the performance
starred the grand troupe of actors Dankikusa (Ichikawa Danjūrō IX, Onoe Kikugorō V
and Ichikawa Sadanji I) it turned out to be a thoroughly miserable performance and a
poor turnout by the audience. I don’t know if this might have been as a result of the
stage curtain.

Out of that generation Mr. Kobayashi passed away twelve years ago. In the days
before his decline I was with him when, in his role as a newspaper drama critic, we
watched from the same sajiki gallery before I watched with others as his remains
were carried away on something called a rendaiza (a lotus shaped pedestal for
carrying someone’s remains). Before he died, in about October Meiji 27 (1894) the
playwright and director Mr. Matsui Shōō started at “Chūō Shimbun”. Together we
went to see plays whilst he also worked on the newspaper company’s Editorial
Department. On one occasion it was the Editorial Department’s lunch break and the
tempura they had from Tenkin Tempuraya (the tempura restaurant that used to
stand on Wakō Street in Ginza 4 chōme and was said to serve the favourite tempura
of Tokugawa Yoshinobu topped with oysters) was excellent though one portion was
enough to make to make my stomach crave for more. The delivery boy from Tenkin
had small ori food boxes containing a set combination of food. One portion of
tempura and two portions of rice were requested instead. Eventually he agreed and
when it was delivered we started eating. However, one portion of tempura was not
enough. A quick telephone call was made while this was going on to ask for a top up.
The request was refused leaving two very irritated people with absolutely no side
dishes, only chaduke tea over rice which we guzzled down. Later though, after Mr.
Matsui and I had left the Chūō Shimbun Newspaper Company, we missed an
opportunity to eat together at Tenkin though we once shared a long bentō box lunch
together in the sajiki gallery.

I long remembered our conversation about the Gekidan Kai Drama Studies
Association which had been established through the kind offices of the organiser, Mr.
Osada Shūtō, which included Marquis Saionji Kinmochi and four others, Fukuchi
Ōchi, Suematsu Seihyō, Ōzaki Kōyō, Takayama Chogyū as well as another three
people, Mr. Matsui, Mr. Enomoto Torahiko and me. Of course he talked about the
respectability of that group of five people and what the purpose of the group was and
that Mr. Matsui felt that Mr. Osada should be included because of his writing skills.
To a certain degree it was necessary for Mr. Enomoto and me to register with the
group in advance and that the intention was to conduct lectures on professional
writing for which the two of us would play a sort of dual role as secretaries. The first
month we met was on a sunny evening in February Meiji 28 (1895) at the Kōyōkan
Restaurant in Shiba Kōen Park.

At the appointed time when all the members gathered the usually friendly Mr. Osada
had to be much more assertive as he brought the meeting to order. However there
was no need for the meeting to continue in this way. What was required of each
person was that they should provide some sort of drama related symposium
otherwise there would be no point in continuing. From the independent scholar Ōchi
there would be two or three talks on the current state of our country’s theatre and to
some degree from Marquis Saionji Kinmochi something about the current state of

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French Theatre while we, Mr. Enomoto and I, in the role of secretaries would take
notes on everything. So a script reading event was organised which took place at the
Kabukiza Theatre in the shikiriba room (at the front of the theatre to the left of the
stage) for the reading of the independent scholar Ōchi’s script for his play ‘Minister
Mukai’ (Mukai Shōgen). Later on during the script reading a man called Manzō
turned up who was from the Kasshiya Restaurant (Translator’s note: used to be
located on the banks of the Sumida River near the Yoshiwara Pleasure Quarter and
appears in the play ‘The Tale of Shiroishi and the Taihei Chronicles’ (Go Taiheki
Shiraishi Banashi‘, the third act of which is Ageya). Why was this man joining the
Gekidan Kai Drama Studies Association? This was something I never understood.
He was the confidant of a proprietor, Chiba Katsugorō, of the Kabukiza Theatre. Was
he there to exert some sort of influence on the proceedings or had he been endorsed
by the independent scholar Ōchi? I watched to see if, as I hoped, he had turned up
at the meeting because of his own personal interest.

“Minister Mukai” (Mukai Shōgen) was listed as the middle act of two scenes for the
Kabukiza Theatre’s March performance run. The actors and roles listed for the
programme were Ichikawa Kuzō III to play Takeda Shingen, Ichikawa Shinzō V to
play Takeda Katsuyori, and Ichikawa Danjūrō IX to play Mukai Shōgen (Minister
Mukai). The scene starts out with Mukai Shōgen (Minister Mukai) and Shingen
accompanied by some mercenary troops. An objection was raised about a change in
technique from conventional to more modern forms and that Shōgen would, in the
circumstances, without a doubt have had a warrior’s customary ability in the martial
arts. This issue was raised once more but not thereafter. It was said that the way it
should be viewed was as a uniquely traditional technique like that which had been
used before this Shingen role, in a dance performance called “Kankatsu Ikkyū”*.
When the honyomi (scenario) script reading was completed a point was made of
asking everyone for their opinion. Except for Master Suematsu’s own remarks
nothing was said. Master Suematsu commented that he thought a further two or
three script revisions were needed. One protest that was raised by the independent
scholar Ōchi was whether or not “Minister Mukai” (Mukai Shōgen) was well known
and should his character therefore be presented in a unique way. The objectionable
Manzō volunteered that “Minister Mukai” (Mukai Shōgen) later became the
Tokugawa Shōgunate’s Navy Minister and that, as he was well known from the Edo
period, such an explanation would be unnecessary. The feeling that came across
was that Manzō’s extreme interest in this Kabuki play should be scrutinised, possibly
by the author discussing it with him. The script was professionally written up, or so it
seemed.

*Translator’s note: “Kankatsu Ikkyū” is a traditional jiuta sakumono musical piece,
where a movement technique called nanba was employed. This is where the arms
and legs are extended together on the same side rather than in opposition, right leg
with left arm and so on, and where movements are rhythmic and fast, compact and
centred. Though still used in Japanese martial arts it was a technique which began
to disappear from the theatre during the period of the Meiji Restoration because of
the desire to adopt Western ways, even modes of movement. It’s quite possible that
this was the issue which they were discussing.

The man from Kasshiya wasn’t very eloquent and was really behaving very oddly.
Master Suematsu kept completely quiet. The acting troupe also became somewhat

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apathetic and off to one side the temperate Mr. Ozaki Kōyō, his chin in his hands,
was drunk on sake and dozing during the honyomi script reading and, falling asleep,
could clearly be heard gently snoring. Sitting next to him was Mr. Takayama Chogyū
who was, by nature, a very serious person though well renowned for his affability, so
it was with a palpitating heart that I witnessed this unfortunate situation.

On the 28th February the play using the finished script was performed at the
Kabukiza Theatre. The first act was ‘The Precious Incense and the Autumn Flowers
of Sendai’ (Meiboku Sendai Hagi) in which Ichikawa Kuzō III had for a long time
taken the role of Nikki Danjō, and also played the role of Takeda Shingen. Ichikawa
Danjūrō IX played the roles of Mukai Shōgen (Minister Mukai), Masaoka,
Otokonosuke and Hosokawa Katsumoto. Even though Danjūrō’s Katsumoto and
Kuzō’s Nikki were portrayed with unparalleled excellence the show wasn’t very
successful. As a consequence Ichikawa Kuzō III lost his sense of purpose in the
show though he later performed to great acclaim in Meiji 41 (1908) at the Kabukiza
theatre when reprised the same role of Nikki after his name had later been changed
to Ichikawa Danzō VII. At the time he was an extraordinarily acclaimed actor and
every day during the performance run was sold out. In the fourteen years between
those performances he had without a doubt become a veteran actor and a great
elder. My impression was that in the olden days there was a lack of spirit of which
the public disapproved. It’s rare that such a great actor suddenly erupts on to the
scene, and something for which I have great admiration. Fourteen years before
audiences were sadly unable to anticipate the same prospect. If they had, fourteen
years later would such expectations have been met? I suffered from being somewhat
judgemental towards them.

Was the first performance of Danjūrō’s Mukai Shōgen (Minister Mukai), something
which was later completely reprised on stage, a failure as a consequence of those
script readings? Whilst the honyomi script reading had been taking place the
Gekidan Kai Drama Studies Association was supposed to have been meeting every
month. The second meeting was due to take place at the opening of Tsukiji’s
Hisagoya Restaurant in the last part of March. Mr. Matsui and I didn’t attend. It was
also apparent that the other members had lost their enthusiasm and there were no
more announcements. Naturally it eventually ended.

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Part 24 Engiza Theatre’s Ichikawa Shinzō V

Danjūrō’s Disciple at Work – The Tragedy of Shinzō – Today’s Nichirō Role
Specialist Actor – Shinzō’s Strong and Popular Roles – The Witch’s Voice

My memory is still pretty strong of the first half of Meiji 28 (1895) when Danjūrō’s
disciple was performing at Akasaka’s Engiza Theatre. The Engiza Theatre started off
as the Fukurokuza Theatre in Akasaka Tameike which was renamed the Keikoza
Theatre. It was here that Danjūrō and his disciples had worked once before when
actors from the Grand Theatres were working at the Minor Theatres. Ignoring the
rules and regulations laid down by the Actors’ Association many were censured. The
performances were very disappointing even to the point where, at one time, they
completely fizzled out but then restarted because of the performances at the
Fukurokuza Theatre. While the disappointing performances continued Minor
Theatres as well as the neighbouring Akasakaza Theatre and the new Ichimuraza
Theatre repeatedly lost shows. How often the reputation of the theatres changed.
What was on offer was unfortunately mostly of a lesser quality and it wasn’t changed
just because the uptown Yamanote customers were attending, even though what
was on offer was poor they still went. In January that year the performances at the
Engiza Theatre were still considered original. Once again Danjūrō’s disciple worked
there and it was from this theatre that he started making his comeback.

The acting cast listed all young actors, Ichikawa Yaozō VII, Ichikawa Metora II,
Ichikawa Somegorō IV, Ichikawa Shinzō V, Ichikawa Masuzō III (prob Ichikawa
Raizō VI). The first performance run was made up of the popular plays ‘Katō and the
Earthquake’ (Jishin Katō) (Translator’s note: the katsureki, historical play aka The
Supplementary Tale of Momoyama, Zoho Momoyama Monogatari, by Kawatake
Mokuami), ‘Kurofune Chūemon’* and ‘Love at the Barrier Gate’ (Seki no To). It had
been a long time since the flowers of Kabuki had been made to blossom in Akasaka.
At the time it was the first opportunity I had to see Yaozō’s Kiyomasa but in the last
forty years since those olden days he has appeared quite often and is much older
now. I’ve also gotten older but not quite as much. However, after talking about old
age I’m going to talk about how, during this period, Ichikawa Shinzō V’s first
struggles occurred.

*Translator’s Note: Kurofune Chūemon is a character from a series of Kabuki jōruri
dramas written between 1704 – 1736 about the large hearted otokodate Nezu
Shirōemon, allegedly a descendant of one Nezu Jinpachi who was one of the ten
ninja heroes the Sanada Ten Braves who served under Sanada Yukimura at the
Battle of Ōsaka Castle. Nezu Shirōemon worked as a longshoreman at the wharf
near Shinmachi Bashi Bridge on Ōsaka’s Dojima River and frequented the
Shinmachi Pleasure Quarters in Ōsaka. He was involved in a robbery incident when
he tried to recover a stolen rice commodity exchange certificate which had been
issued by the Dōjima Rice Exchange. He is portrayed as a kind of machi-yakko
(Robin Hood-like delinquent rogue) who wears a type of hood called an Anegawa
Zukin and Anegawa wooden geta clogs both of which as a result of the plays
became fashionable in Kyōto and Ōsaka and were named after the Kabuki actor
Anegawa Shinshirō I who had a big hit with his own adaptation ‘Shinmachi Bashi no
Funayodo no Kurofune no Andon’ (The Lamp of Kirofune at the Wharf of Shinmachi
Bashi Bridge).

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I wrote before about Shinzō (see Part 15 Shinzō and Ganjirō). From Spring of Meiji
20 (1887) he was one of those who was classed as a senior Nadai actor, though it
seems that along with his status came misfortune. He was once a tachiyaku male
role specialist but said that it was his intention to change to becoming an onnagata
female role specialist. In March Meiji 23 (1890) at the Kabukiza Theatre his
performance as Bijomaru in ‘The Second Tale of the Heike at the Sōma Palace’
(Sōma Heike Nidai Monogatari – a similar version is Masakado) was very popularly
acclaimed. Suddenly he became famous and as a considerably professional actor a
proposal for him to become Ichikawa Danjūrō X gained support (‘Jūdaime!’ or Tenth
Generation became a favourite applauding shout or kakegoe for Shinzō by the
Omuko callers at the time). I don’t know how much he engaged with this aspiration.
After this the nervous tension he exhibited on stage was evident and the roles in
which he excelled continued in their popularity. However his future became tragic.
Like Sawamura Tanosuke III he lost a leg and was gradually losing his sight.

Around about July that year, just when his role as Bijomaru was becoming popular,
he contracted some sort of eye infection and lost the sight in his left eye. He was
expected to appear in the Kabukiza Theatre’s O-Bon Festival of the Dead gala
performance run in which he was to appear in all popular key roles, as Yukioka
Fuyujirō in the first act, ‘The Tale of Shiranui’ (Shiranui Hanashi), as the Priest
Keikaku in the second scene, ‘The Fortress of Suginomori’ (Suginomori) of the
middle act of ‘The Illustrated Tales of the Taikō’ (Ehon Taikōki), and as Iseya
Shinzaburō in the second act ‘An Aizu Souvenir: A Silk Love Letter from Atami’
(Atami Aizu: Ganpi Tamazusa aka Atami Miyage Ganpi no Tamazusa) which were
all listed on the banzuke theatre programme. Unfortunately on the opening day he
didn’t appear and was replaced in the roles of Fuyujirō and Priest Keikaku by Iwai
Matsunosuke IV, and in the role of Iseya Shinzaburō by Bandō Kakitsu I.
Occasionally this sort of thing was done and in the olden days simply relying on the
banzuke theatre programmes for the assignment of roles was something with which
unexpected mistakes rarely occurred.

Incidentally, at the time there was a little of question about the performance run
relating to the senior Nadai actor and the second Kabuki play ‘An Aizu Souvenir: A

Such was the importance of the role of the Priest Keikaku that in 1890 whilst
performing in Tōkyō Nakamura Ganjirō I cut short another obligation, playing in an
adaptation of a similar three act play (this was his role as Kinshōjo in the play
Kokkusen’ya Gassen at the Nakamuraza Theatre), and gave a wonderful
performance in the role of the Priest Keikaku in the second scene, ‘The Fortress of
Suginomori‘ (Suginomori) of the middle act ‘Illustrated Tales of the Taikō’ (Ehon
Taikōki).

The question was about the traditional appropriateness, for a senior Nadai actor, of
the title of the second act ‘An Aizu Souvenir: A Silk Love Letter from Atami’ (Atami
Aizu: Ganpi Tamazusa aka Atami Miyage Ganpi no Tamazusa). The combined kanji
character for “souvenir” (土産, miyage) had been concatenated from two kanji
characters into one. It was said that the left hand “earth” radical (土 tsuchi) was
added to the kanji for “product of” (珍 san). An article about this was published at the
time in the magazine “Kabuki Shinpō” (Kabuki News) talking about the fact that even
though this had been done ‘A Silk Love Letter: A Souvenir from Atami’ (Atami
Miyage Ganpi no Tamazusa 熱海土産雁皮玉章) was still made up of eight
characters. Traditionally, on the issue of the titles of plays, a senior Nadai actor
would avoid plays with titles made up of an even number of kanji characters;
something which was overdone by insisting on plays with titles that consisted of
three, five or seven kanji characters. As a consequence in the Edo period Kabuki
jōruri plays with chanting and shamisen accompaniment in which senior Nadai actors
performed had titles made of kanji characters that were used as phonetic symbols
rather than for their meaning, a requirement of which was that in the absence of
existing printing typefaces new ones had to be made, not a small thing to have to do.
After the Meiji period in the absence of appropriate printing typefaces new ones were
made up for, and which were popular with, the senior Nadai actors of Shin Kabuki.
On the date the newspapers had invited us to go and see the performance I went
with all their staff to watch from the west sajiki gallery. There I greeted Mr. Hikosaku
who pointed out to a certain person, Mr. Sudō Nansui (real name Sudō Mitsuteru) if I
not mistaken, the souvenir (miyage) character in the banzuke theatre programme at
which both were laughing. Mr. Hikosaku, who was built like a Sumō wrestler, was
shaking with laughter. ‘In spite of that being in it the play is OK, isn’t it?’ he stuffily
retorted.

Because of the eye disease which had suddenly appeared in one eye Shinzō had,
as a consequence, been absent from the stage for a while. It was fortunate that this
enabled him to convalesce. The following year, Meiji 24 (1891), he was working at
Torigoe’s Nakamuraza Theatre where he first appeared as Katō Kazuenosuke in the
first act ‘Hachijin’ (Hachijin Shujo no Honjō, the eight act of which is called Honjō), as
Shuntokumaru in the middle act ‘A Picture Book of the Crossroads at Gappō’ (Gappō
aka Gappō ga Tsuji), and as Yoshida Matsuwakamaru in the second act ‘The Great
Thief of the Miyakodori Brothel’ (Miyakodori Nagare no Shiranami aka Shinobu no
Sōda) though he didn’t appear as energetic on stage as he used to because of his
decline. In only the second act he appeared as in the role of Yoshida
Matsuwakamaru who was disguised as the Courtesan Hanako. It was necessary for
the face of the woman’s character to be beautiful, a point which was particularly

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made to the katsurashi wig maker. The wig was made up with the forelocks hanging
low on one side in the ‘shidare’ weeping willow style. When he came on stage it
skilfully covered Shinzō’s really unfortunate disfigurement.

Afterwards, as he continued working at the theatre, his performances grew in
popularity. That actor was certainly not unpopular though there were those who
thought otherwise. His eye disease became progressively worse and while he was
once again absent from the stage he was hospitalised in Sekijūji Byōin Hospital and
then later at Daigyakubyōin University Teaching Hospital. As a result his condition
improved and after a long hiatus he began working at the Kabukiza Theatre in May
Meiji 27 (1894) where he started playing the Priest Nichirō and Myōjō Tendōji
appearing in the first act of in the independent scholar Ōchi’s work ‘The Chronicle of
Nichiren’ (Nichirenki) and in the middle act as Hanzawa Rokurō in ‘Biwa no
Kagekiyo’ (aka Kagekiyo). During the scene of the arrest of the Priest Nichirō there
was a big tachimawari fight scene with soldiers appearing on stage. The scene of the
exile (of Nichiren) to a prison cave on Sado Island was very moving at every
performance. These days his acting role as Nichirō is much admired.

After the time of his performance in ‘The Chronicle of Nichiren’ (Nichirenki), while he
was convalescing, an official announcement was made by his master Danjūrō who
appeared on stage in a formal haori over jacket and hakama trousers to make a
lengthy formal ceremonial Kōjō statement. On the stage the last cushion was left
vacant. During the interval Danjūrō continually wiped his eyes with his sleeve.
Because Shinzō’s eye infection wasn’t improving it was having a deeply emotional
effect. Though apart from this, which I didn’t understand, Danjūrō gave a lengthy
Kōjō ceremonial to the effect that Shinzō was in recovery and that however much his
eye infection was affecting him Shinzō was very much loved. This was warmly
greeted at the theatre as people were growing increasingly sympathetic towards his
situation. As Danjūrō’s Kōjō ceremonial announcement was coming to an end he
made some very funny double punned remarks (sharé). Nowadays, said Danjūrō,
double punning, Shinzō’s swollen nose (pride) is rumoured to be disadvantageous.
All the doctors have been remarkable in treating his eye disease but in treating his
nose (pride) they had been of no use whatsoever. Personally they had been great in
treating my hand and though surely Shinzō’s nose (pride) is broken and misshapen I
am pleased to say that my friend is able to adapt to the situation. The audience all
laughed and broke into applause. In practical terms it was only recently that Shinzō’s
talent had been recognised but at the same time people had become aware of his
growing legendary pride.

Other than going to see his stage appearances I attended another event in July Meiji
24 (1891) which was in his dressing room at the Kabukiza Theatre where the actors
were in rehearsal. When I looked around the room I didn’t recognise any of the
actors. He clashed brusquely with one of the young performers, the type who is said
to be someone whose manner appears to be one of indomitable haughtiness. His
master Danjūrō could also sometimes be as haughty, which could lead to
misunderstandings and something which seemed to routinely follow them around.
This one aspect revealed his extremely ambitious character and he appeared to
overflow with a kind of fearlessness. This sort of training owed much to his literature.
At the time he was supported by his patron Navy Ensign Viscount Ogasawara
Naganari who wrote the introduction to Shinzō’s book “Chill Winter Wind”

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(Kogarashi) which was published by the Tōkyō publisher Shun’yō Dō (on May 15th
Meiji 26 -1893). I am told it contained some very skilful examples of his painting and
calligraphy. It was something which both actors and Buyō pantomime dancing
groups drew from for their training.

In the latter half of Meiji 24 (1891) he continued his work at the Kabukiza Theatre. I
have already mentioned that he was appearing in performances at Akasaka’s Engiza
Theatre in January Meiji 28 (1895). Before and after this his face when seen from the
front had been disfigured by his eye infection. The disfiguration to his eye which was
clearly noticeable needed to be hidden when he was on stage. As a consequence he
wore a white eye patch the cords for which went over and under each ear.

Ichikawa Shinzō V wearing his eye patch

I had odd feelings about this though at the time it really was used for nothing other
than hiding his disfigured eye. It also appeared that his health was failing.
Nevertheless on stage he made do even though it was with a little less energy. In his
first performance as Sekibei in ‘Love at the Barrier Gate’ (Seki no To) his haughty
manner was met with increased hostility by the newspapers drama critics to the
extent that though whilst praising his performance they were unsparing in their
remarks about this particular aspect. Even though his eye was covered what kind of
actor would he have been had he not been affected by eye disease? Though at the
time this was concealed from me, now I know he would have been like Matsumoto
Kōshirō VII.

His performance was favourably received and afterwards he appeared most months
at the opening performances. During this period I remember Shinzō’s strong roles
were as a ‘Yakko Dōjōji’ Kabuki play specialist. Most memorable were as the Pirate
Kezori in ‘The Pirate Kezori and the Girl from Hakata’ (Hakata Kojoro Nami Makura),
Kumagai in ‘Kumagai’s Battle Camp’ (Kumagai Jin’ya), and as Sōshun in
‘Kōchiyama’ (aka Kumo ni magō Ueno no Hatsuhana). During the latter half of Meiji
24 (1891) the effort of his appearances during those six months probably felt like a
lifetime. It was a shame that picture postcards of him from around that time have
been lost to posterity, as well as the journals “New Theatre Arts” (Shin Engei) and
“Theatre Illustrated” (Engei Gahō) in which articles and pictures of him had
appeared. However, though there aren’t very many, some photographs of him which
were being sold in the theatre’s undōba enclosures remain extant. The traditional

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significance of that, a record of the spirit of the stage, wasn’t generally something
which should have been put at risk.

During this period his health increasingly declined, though he was able to work
occasionally in ‘Kōchiyama’ and the other plays. He stayed in his gakuya dressing
room where a futon was permanently laid out. I heard that when the curtain opened it
appeared that he had to crawl to get on stage. With that he knew that he didn’t have
much longer to live. Apparently towards the end, though helped by a tube, he
struggled to breathe and if he succeeded it was only through a heroic effort.

Certainly with being so ill, as far as they were able, he was assisted many times by
his fellow actors. Even so his stage conditioning was vastly reduced and in silhouette
he looked emaciated. It was only really when I saw that Shinzō that I was inspired
with awe and realised that only he was worthy to be known as the epitome of the
spirit of the stage. His work drew on the power of the soul.

His final appearance at the Engiza Theatre was in June and in July when he joined
Ichikawa Ennosuke I’s troupe, when the curtain was raised at the Shintomiza
Theatre. Shinzō performed on occasion as Itō Sōda in ‘The Chaos of the Devil Cat of
Nabeshima’ (Nabeshima Neko Sōdō) and as Princess Sarashina, the witch of Mount
Togakushi, in ‘Contemplating Maples’ (Momijigari). I was somewhat hindered from
seeing those performances in which the role of the witch was generally very popular.
It seemed that he gave these performances in spite of his illness, which he finally
seemed to have overcome. Before I could go to the Shintomiza Theatre I overheard
the news about his distinctive on stage speaking voice in the role of the witch.

A Question for the Stage – The Show Business Combination of Men and Women – A
War Song of the Sino-Japanese War (Translator’s note: About Ding Ruchang the
Chinese Admiral who built up China’s first modern Navy) – Kawakami’s Theatre
World Innovations – Byakkotai White Tiger Force Drama

In May Meiji 28 (1895) Kawakami Otojirō’s acting troupe worked at the Kabukiza
Theatre, a difficult situation for the world of the theatre. Today it can’t but be
expected for a question to be raised about the then problematic circumstances of the
period, which were reflected on generally by society at the time.

The First Sino-Japanese War suddenly provided an opportunity to develop for both
the boisterous socio-political activist Sōshi Shibai Drama and Shosei Shibai ‘Student’
Drama. Even though until then Shosei Shibai Drama had been scorned, from the first
day of that month their popularity increased and in this way they gradually became
something of an attraction. With the exception of the Grand Ichimuraza Theatre their
base of operations were mostly the Minor Theatres to which people had previously
not been voting with their feet when, to put it succinctly, their performances had been
seen as Donchō Shibai, drop curtain plays. As guests at the Grand Kabuki there was
some confused speculation that their appearances should no longer be seen as
such. Kawakami’s acting troupe came on board at the Kabukiza Theatre without any
hesitation, boasting that as such they were now the number one acting troupe in
Japan. As it wasn’t very controversial I don’t know whether this might have been
possible with the other Grand Theatres. Anyway, as might be expected, they went to
Honjō District’s Kabukiza Theatre. It appeared that Shōsei Shibai Drama was
triumphing over traditional Kabuki Drama which, as a consequence, resulted in
various discussions. Articles for and against this situation appeared in every
newspaper and I was told a rumour that Kawakami bribed all the newspaper
reporters.

I’m sorry to say that somehow Shosei Shibai ‘Student’ Drama was in the ascendant
on the stage of the Kabukiza Theatre. I was ill informed about this, not knowing
much about this side of things. This was especially true as in those days I had lost
my job as a newspaper reporter and had been unemployed for a short while. It was
to my advantage and wouldn’t have cost me anything to ask around which I hadn’t
been doing, apart from once instance when I met with Mr. Enomoto Torahiko. On
that occasion when I was talking to him about it he laughed derisively and said,
‘What?! Come now. I wonder if it’s only being a good theatre specialist that’s going to
be lucrative?’. There really hardly seemed to be any opportunities anywhere at all.
Since autumn of the previous year the First Sino-Japanese War drama had been
playing at the Kabukiza Theatre, each performance of which had been disappointing.
I dare say that in such an unexpected situation some ideas that were followed
through may possibly have been desperate measures by the most senior theatre
business strategists. One such was with a Kabuki acting troupe performing Fujisawa
Asajirō’s work called ‘The Surrender of Weihaiwei‘ (Ikaiei Kanraku). Well… I was told
that the opening event was chaotic and in exceeding expectations continued to be
sold out. At this time Kabuki acting troupes also performed Kawakami’s plays. It was
questionable whether or not and to what extent this was of any benefit. It’s worth

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mentioning that Shosei ‘student’ play actors who were limited to war plays were
ironically monopolising stage performances. The craze for war plays had not cooled
and audiences were vying with one another to get in to see the performances. The
second play that was performed, called ‘The Lantern of Karma’ (Inga Dōrō), was a
quaint single layered thing.

As I ponder what I am writing I am recalling the members of this acting troupe.
Firstly, Kawakami Otojirō was the zagashira, troupe leader (and was declared
Chairman). Then there was Fujisawa Asajirō. These two held a status similar to that
of Danjūrō and Kikugorō. Fujisawa, an onnagata female role specialist, was
considered to be the troupe’s tateoyama, the leading onnagata. Somehow he
combined being an excellent scriptwriter with being an onnagata female role
specialist, and a tachiyaku male role specialist. With such a talented and essential
principal in the acting troupe they could not but be successful. He was also popular
with and pulled in the public. He was someone that I knew and in his final year’s
suffered some misfortune. He really was the troupe’s leading actor. In addition the
others who became members of the troupe were Saori Keichiirō, Iwao Keisaburō,
Takada Minoru, Shibada Zentarō, Nakano Nobuchika. As an onnagata female role
specialist the actor called Ishida Nobuo was really skilful.

While this was happening one person, a really pretty young actress called Katsura,
who was a disciple of the actress Ichikawa Kumehachi, was formally presented at
what was formerly the Misakiza Theatre. From Spring of Meiji 28 (1895) onwards
Katsura and her teacher joined Kawakami’s acting troupe to work at the Ichimuraza
Theatre. She was someone who, while she was working for him, also desired him.
The master was as an older man suitable yet was of that generation who had an
established reputation. With pleasure she was accepted into the troupe. The young
actress was constantly welcoming* in her dressing room a young man. At the time
there were standards of public behaviour on the use of dressing rooms so this wasn’t
considered amusing. There were troubling rumours coming from various parts of
society. Kawakami, though not Kumehachi, said that it was agreed that the young
woman should absolutely not be allowed to join the troupe. Katsura wasn’t a young
woman to be to be ignored. While as his wife (Translator’s note: they married in
October Meiji 26 - 1893) because she was used to always being spoilt when they
were in the haberdashery store she was invited to decorate the bottom of her
marumage married women’s hairdo (Translator’s note: this would have been with
hair ornaments) which Kawakami had himself previously paid for. Consequently
Katsura then complainingly insisted that she be given her place (in the troupe) and
Kawakami finally gave in to her obstinacy though as this would be a working
situation she would have to do as she was told. Though with Katsura this boundary
was insisted on the troupe didn’t stay around for very long. Her teacher Kumehachi
was the first to leave though she was sad to forgo her place in and performing with
the troupe. It would seem that anticipating what was about to happen Kawakami’s
intention was to try and stand up for and encourage both men and women to perform
together. After Kumehachi and the others had left, foreseeing that this was
something that was going to be really inconvenient, Sadayakko asked if, before she
became his wife, she had only been just an onnagata female role specialist; she was
pushy through and through.

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*Translator’s note: hiki ireru are the words used here for welcoming (pull/let in) but
hiki has other connotations such as to mill or grind.

About that performance I suddenly remembered the reputation of Takata Minoru. In
those days Takata started by becoming a member of Kawakami’s acting troupe and,
if I think about it, he developed more and more as a revisionist scriptwriter. To begin
with he wasn’t very knowledgeable about drama but after an interval of about three
to four years he had noticeably improved. Other performances of his around this time
were in his popular roles of Tei Joshō (Ding Ruchang) in ‘The Surrender of
Weihaiwei’ (Ikaiei Kanraku) and the previous year’s role of Ri Kōshō (Li Honzhang)
in the play ‘The First Sino-Japanese War’ (Nisshinsensō), both unfamiliar roles of
Chinese men which were played in an unexpectedly agitated style of acting. In the
Shosei Shibai ‘Student’ Drama his Tei Joshō (Ding Ruchang) was played in the style
of Danjūrō, someone who he admired. From that point on he was unexpectedly
considered the leading proponent of Shosei Shibai ‘Student’ Drama.

Kawakami had won his victory. In July he experimented with two big performances in
which the middle act was the independent scholar Ōchi’s new work ‘Mount Ōe’
(Ōeyama). They proved unpopular and the performances were closed. It was also
unfortunate that this happened twice onstage at the Kabukiza Theatre even though
the billboards were truly magnificent. What is called Shosei Shibai ‘Student’ Drama
really became better established to the extent that it formed the basis of today’s
Shinpa, or New School, of Drama. This wasn’t achieved entirely as a result of one
person’s endeavours but emerged from the endeavours of others as well; Fujisawa,
Takata, Ii Yōhō, Kawai Takeo, Kitamura Rokurō, and numerous others who
indisputably rendered distinguished service in its development. That said Kawakami
Otojirō really was its foremost elder statesman and the driving force.

While this single aspect of his invited even more speculation the development of the
future Shinpa New School of Drama benefitted as a result of his eagerness, the
great effort he put into it, and from his resourcefulness. An artist he was not but he
was, quite literally, a businessman. As a result of this characteristic, he had a worldly
view of things on top of which he owed a substantial sum of money which he needed
to pay back, something he blustered about, telling fanciful stories. In these
circumstances others found themselves doubting him. All those that should have
counted were very critical and were assessing his numerous appearances. Anyway
the public were fed up with the disorderly unprofessional leadership and groups of
acting troupes of Shosei Shibai ‘Student’ Drama. There was a lack of understanding
from both those in the East, Edo, and those in the West, Kamigata, neither of which
understood what was happening in Tōkyō, the place where it was launched. It had
been a hard fought struggle and after a little more than an interval of three to five
years what had been achieved had happened in what had become a stronghold for
groups of unsavoury types, though certainly some of them should be seen as having
been brave. As a result of that strenuous effort after sixteen years, almost a lifetime
of living, that generation had faded away, in November Meiji 44 (1911) history was
made (Translator’s note: Kawakami Otojirō passed away on the 11th November).

So… talking about what happened during that period, whilst my initial feelings were
that I didn’t like Kawakami, I did by chance meet him many times though I carefully
avoided getting close to him. All newspaper reporters received invitations to the sajiki

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gallery and in such circumstances were greeted on arrival. I habitually limited myself
to only a greeting leaving everyone else to their sociable chit-chat which he initiated
all the more and to which, in a manner of speaking, I declined to involve myself in. I
was not at all as involved as others were though three years before, in July Meiji 41
(1908), as that generation faded we began a more open and honest face to face
relationship.

As I recall it was July 6th. The previous evening he had arrived at my house on Sono-
chō Street on the south side of Kōjimachi. Unfortunately I was out so the following
morning when he came back a second time, he intruded on my breakfast. Honestly! I
thought, what kind of business is that urgent?!. He was shown into the second floor
study and with only just a ‘Good morning’ he launched into what business he had
with me. He gave me a draft of a script but as I had no experience with the scripts of
the Shinpa New School of Drama I declined. He disagreed. It was not Shinpa but
was classical drama. He said he was at this time undertaking innovative
performances for the world of the theatre though in doing so was moving away from
those that involved traditional performance methods and was losing out on the
associated lavish theatre fees. Once the performances in Tōkyō were over they
would continue performing at many venues on a provincial tour along with the entire
stage set, including costumes and wigs. Picking up a soroban (abacus) I totted the
whole thing up. It was also intended that the stage set would also include a
locomotive. The plays that were being launched were to be divided into two
categories, both new and old. From September at the Hongoza Theatre the curtain
would go up on both Kawakami Sadayakko and Fukazawa Tsunezō in the new
plays, whilst for the other old plays Ichikawa Sadanji II, Ichikawa Sumizō V,
Nakamura Matagorō I, Sawamura Sōnosuke I, Jitsukawa Enjaku II, and Jitsukawa
Enzaburō V from Ōsaka were expected to join together to perform and raise the
curtain on a benefit performance at the Meijiza Theatre. It was the script for Sadanji’s
group that I preferred to do, a Shigeki Historical Drama with armour and gold
embossed long swords. This was something that wherever feasible, during the time
of transition during the Meiji Era, the public preferred. This took us no more than
thirty minutes of negotiation. Was he in no doubt that Sadanji really would be
appearing with him? He certainly would he replied.

In the circumstances there were different points of view about these things and ideas
which necessitated discussion. The year before the previous one I had travelled to
Aizu to investigate a historical landmark regarding the Byakkotai White Tiger Force.
Kawakami conveniently suggested and agreed to, without too much difficulty, a full
length Tōshi Kyōgen dramatisation of about six acts. I pondered this intellectually
since for me to do something as long as this was unusual. Well anyway, it was my
intention to consider this proposal, I replied. The following day at dusk he returned
again enquiring what kind of updates had been made to the script. I replied that
since a decision had not been made since yesterday as to what those changes
would be and that six acts was not something that had been expected, and that they
(the Byakkotai White Tiger Force) would join forces with the Shōgitai League to
Demonstrate Righteousness or something like that, that I didn’t have the time to take
it on right then. He asked me to consider the pros and cons and went home.

At around that time I was working at the Tōkyō Mainichi Shimbun Newspaper
Company. One day Kawakami telephoned twice to say that he hadn’t yet received

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the script and, fired up about the reviews to the script, he became demanding. He
was a noisy nuisance and I ended up in a bad temper and so I quickly told him that I
was turning down the offer to work on his script. That night at about ten o’clock he
arrived at my house on Motozono-chō Street and was repeatedly asked to leave.
From the stairwell I cried, ‘Sensei, I am troubled, I am troubled’ and wiping the sweat
off my face went upstairs where I sat my breathing agitated. Reluctantly I did the play
though I quickly once again became apathetic in spite of which I eventually gave in
completely to persuasion. After all I wasn’t in competition with him. It would appear
that in his efforts he was always successful.

As supporters of the Shōgunate even the combined forces of the Shōgitai League to
Demonstrate Righteousness and the Byakkotai White Tiger Force were inferior in the
face of Chōshū’s Kiheitai irregular militia who were armed with guns, something
which I wrote about in the play which I entitled ‘Before and After the Restoration’
(Ishin Zengo) about Aizu’s Byakkotai White Tiger Force. Kawakami immediately
came flying over and told me about some requests he had. As documents were by
no means a substitute for discussions he had visited in person. In spite of all this I
was very busy, now considerably more so. When I began I was always wiping away
my sweat, something which I think is one of my idiosyncrasies. As I finished the
script and once rehearsals were completed it was to open on the 19 th or the 20th
September at the Meijiza Theatre. The Hongoza Theatre’s opening event was on the
same day.

At the end of its theatrical run after its launch at the Meijiza Theatre, as was
customary, the troupe went off on a provincial tour. I don’t remember very well each
and every venue. Of course the tour included Kyōto and Ōsaka, and about seven or
eight places in Chūgoku and about a dozen more in Kyūshū. Kawakami frequently
sent me communications from those destinations. Certainly whatever he dictated I
transcribed, though each time I wrote it differently. Anyway, as my future depended
on their onward journey, I redoubled my efforts. Occasionally I received a full house
gratuity passed on to me as a bonus. In the circumstances, because business was
always marvellously excellent, I did nothing but write. As was customary Kawakami
expressed in his eccentric style that as part of the process, though not as a
consequence of the play’s success, the remaining thing left that I could do was to
write a book. As one would expect he grew persuasive. While all this was happening
the play received a number of critical reviews but managed to ride out the storm. In
spite of this he wasn’t demeaned and it is recognized that he continued to develop.

It was unfortunate that in the prime of his life, at the age of forty-eight, he died. Just
supposing he had lived until now who knows what kind of performance interpretation
would have resulted. With regard to his character he would have, with arms folded,
mischievously changed the outlook of the theatrical world. Although changeable and
erratic he would have undoubtedly established new ways of performing. It’s kind of
an interesting question. It was too bad that his chances of seeing in the Taishō Era
were never realised.

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Part 26 ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) and ‘Sukeroku’

An Eighteen Year Interval for ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) – The Magnificence and
Splendour of the Stage – Yaozō’s Kiyomori – ‘Sukeroku’ – An Audience’s Fortitude –
The Sly Horikawa

In covering Meiji 28 (1895) to Meiji 29 (1896) the plays ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku)
and ‘Sukeroku’ from Ichikawa Danjūrō IX’s Kabuki Jūhachiban, his series of eighteen
favourite plays, which were being performed at the Kabukiza Theatre must now be
considered. Though it is uncertain if what is written here is the most recent
investigation of these Kabuki plays, it is the first time since they disappeared from
the repertoire that the craftsmanship shown by the Danjūrō line of actors in their
performances of ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) and ‘Sukeroku’ have been immortalised.

The former was the middle act of the November Meiji 28 (1895) performance run.
The first act was ‘The Chronicles of Various Families of the Siege of Ōsaka’ (Ōsaka
Jin Shoka no Kakitome).

Left to right - Ichikawa Shinzō V (eye patch not shown) as Kimura Nagata no Kami Shigenari and Ichikawa Danjūrō IX as
Shigenari’s mother and Toyotomi Hideyori’s wet nurse Kunakiyō no Tsubone in ‘The Chronicles of Various Families of the
Siege of Ōsaka’ (Ōsaka Jin Shoka no Kakitome) performed at the Kabukiza Theatre in November Meiji 28 (1895) by Kunichika

The second act was ‘Revenge at Okazaki’ (Okazaki) (Acts 8 & 9) from ‘Revenge at
Igagoe’ (Igagoe Dōchū Sugoroku). The first act was conventional in style and was an
adapted story by the independent scholar Ōchi about the fall of Ōsaka Castle.
Danjūrō played Kanai no Tsubone and Shinzō played Kimura Shigenari in the most
popular scene about the parting of mother and son*. The second act’s roles with
Danjūrō as Kōbei and Ichikawa Yaozō VII as Masaemon were equally as popular,
and Shinzō as Otani was especially good. Though he still had the eye patch he
played the roles of the reputedly really handsome man at Ōsaka, Kimura Shigenari,
and, as an onnagata female role specialist, Otani.

*Translator’s note: kowakare – parting of parent and child scenes is a typical
Japanese theme in historical drama

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The performance run was a full house every day and of course the special attraction
was the middle act ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) which, I think I am right in saying,
was revived on stage after an eighteen year absence. As I write I can recall the cast
roles which were:

(Translator’s note: a priest with long whiskers and make up like a catfish)

Firstly, I must say that, around that time their handsome, albeit mature, faces made
quite a picture. It was then that I first saw the play called ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku).
The storyline was really very simple. There were various records about this and
there seemed to be no difference between what I had imagined and what I saw. The
staging was wonderfully magnificent, to the extent this event transformed Edo
Kabuki, which was blossoming. I was completely enthralled. Anyway, every day
there was a large audience accompanied by Danjūrō’s equally large and exceptional
voice. He didn’t seem to over exert himself to the extent that his voice was affected
and to prevent this happening the actors rested during the middle of the day of the
performance run.

Ichikawa Danjūrō IX as Kamakura Gongorō Kagemasa (left) in ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) and as Shigenari’s mother and
Toyotomi Hideyori’s wet nurse Kunakiyō no Tsubone (right) in ‘Ōsaka Jin Shoka no Kakitome’ (The Chronicles of Various
Families of the Siege of Ōsaka) at the Kabukiza Theatre in November Meiji 28 (1895) by Toyohara Kunichika

It had been a long time since Danjūrō had performed ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) and
he handed out many folding fans after the Kōjō ceremonial address on which the
following haiku was written. Naturally it was printed on high quality paper…

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譲られた太刀
ぬぐはゞや
霜日和

九世三升

Yuzurareta tachi
nuguwa baya
shimo hiyori

Kyūse Sanshō

I’d wipe clean the sword,
that has been given to me…
…frost on a bright day

Sanshō IX

It would also seem that the Kōjō ceremonial speech had been drafted by the
independent scholar Ōchi.

‘According to the accounts Ichikawa Danjūrō I first performed ‘Wait a Minute’
(Shibaraku) in the New Year of Genroku 10 (1697) and then after its second even
more successful performance in Genroku 13 (1700) it was inherited by the
successive generations of that name. It became established and for a long time it
was performed every year as an annual event as part of the customary festive
activities. As a play it excels in the character of old Edo guys’ style of repartee and it
should, together as a challenge from the role as played by all my ancestors and in
such a well-known way, be performed here in commemoration of the role. You are
sincerely and respectfully invited, this festival season, to inspect this exceptional and
splendidly magnificent ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) which I have performed before
and which I, Ichikawa Danjūrō IX of Horigoe, commit to you on stage’, he said.

Such abstract speeches are in regular use and most of the time the meaning is
explained although I was disappointed that there wasn’t a more detailed explanation
as the language and phrasing was unfamiliar.

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Ichikawa Danjūrō IX as Kamakura Gongorō Kagemasa
in the November 1895 production at the Kabukiza Theatre

There is a well-known bronze statue and photograph showing him wearing
ceremonial dress and a large sword which shows the spirit of the moment when he
appeared through the rear agemaku curtain, swaying, onto the hanamichi walkway
through the audience.

This also shows the moment when he stops on the hanamichi’s shichisan, seven-
three point where poses and speeches are made, and makes a famous long and
sonorous speech with all the words strung together without pauses, declaring
“Barbarians to the east and to the west, southern barbarians, and northern
barbarians” (tōi seijū nanban hokuteki). I was, together with the audience, simply
intoxicated. Without overdoing it I would say that there was a general feeling that this
was his forte. It should be mentioned that the above mentioned explanation is not a
technical resource.

I enjoyed that improbably strange hit. The following year, Meiji 29 (1896), in May
‘Sukeroku’ was once again performed. On this occasion the first play was ‘The
Peony Tales of the Heike’ (Fūkigusa Heike Monogatari) and the second was ‘The
Certified Totoya Tea Bowl’ (Hakogaki Tsuke Totoya no Chawan by Kawatake
Mokuami - probably aka as Sandai Banashi Totoya no Chawan). ‘Sukeroku’ was left

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in its traditional place as the middle act. The first, adapted from and a postscript to
the original work ‘Shigemori Kangen’ by Mokuami, was a new play about the
Shishigatani Incident by Mokuami’s disciple Kawatake Shinshichi III set on an
eventful day in a villa styled on a Mikoshi portable shrine. Danjūrō’s reputation in the
roles of Shigemori and the Priest Saikō was already established. With Yaozō written
in as the novice monk Kiyomori, in part because his popularity had surpassed that of
Sadanji, it was top notch.

Ichikawa Danjūrō IX as Taira Shigemori in Shigemori Kangen

Contrary to others good fortune Shinzō had been increasingly unlucky. In the
previous year’s ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) he skilfully played the role of Namazu
Bōzu (Catfish Priest) for the first time alongside his roles as Kimura Shigenari and
Otani. Later on his illness became increasingly severe and his performances
deteriorated. In the first act he was expected to play the roles of Munemori and
Shunkan, and in the middle act Fukuyama, typically strong minor roles. The banzuke
theatre programme featured these, his official roles, in the line-up. In practical terms
he was replaced in the role of Munemori by Somegorō and in the role of Shunkan by
Masuzō. He only managed to appear on stage as Fukuyama and carry off the
performance no more than once. He was shadow of himself and very thin with a
bulging eye. My sorrow at his appearance there grew and seeing him was difficult to
endure. He was someone who deserved better and it already seemed that his life on
stage probably wouldn’t last much longer.

The tone of the second act was set nicely with Kikugorō in the role of Mamushi no
Jirokuchi and Matsusuke in the role of the heavy drinker Hisatsugu and was
interesting in the way it was presented.

It was also at that time that I first saw ‘Sukeroku’. This was very different from ‘Wait a
Minute’ (Shibaraku) and was unacceptably uninteresting. In the middle of May, the
month of gardens, the weather was tolerably fine. We were sitting in the hiradoma
dirt floor boxes. I was being tormented by the heat and, as I recall, quietly watching
the final scene with some fortitude. The libretto of ‘Sukeroku’ was published for the
first time as a supplement in “Kabuki Shinpō” magazine, which I read. Well, with
respect, I’d already seen it on stage for the first time and was surprised at how long it
was. Were they one and the same thing? At the time ‘Wait a Minute’ (Shibaraku) was

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pulling in a full house that was second to none. At the time the main casting of roles
(for Sukeroku) was:

Though I have said previously that the play was uninteresting the three main
characters who appeared on stage, Sukeroku, Ikyū and Agemaki, were portrayed in
a published outstanding nishiki-e woodblock print in which I noticed how distinctly the
strength of their characters were portrayed. After all, in the olden days the
appearance of actors was splendid. I won’t yet say any more about Danjūrō’s
Sukeroku. Suffice to say that the audience didn’t show much respect for Shikan who,
though a ranking actor, was past his prime. Nevertheless in such a time honoured
role as Ikyū that many actors had played, he was still majestically commendable and
able to pull in an audience. As was expected, in this capacity, whether or not his
stage presence was really splendid he was undoubtedly an actor of the highest
order. The role of Agemaki was played by Nakamura Utaemon V, as he was called
later on, while he was in his youthful prime (and would have been known as
Nakamura Fukusuke IV), though I guess that is something about which I won’t be
able to comment until another time.

The venerable elder Tamura Nariyoshi states that with these choices of play the
performance run cleared a profit of ¥25,000* which in those days is the current
equivalent of ¥50,000 - ¥60,000, a considerably large sum of money.

*Translator’s note: 25,000 yen in 2011 values is about 90 million yen, about
£600,000 or $900,000

One of the events of that year that sticks in my mind happened at the March
performance run at the Meijiza Theatre when Kikugorō performed as Yojirō in
‘Monkey Training at Horikawa’ (Horikawa Sarumawashi) who, in the story, employed
a monkey. A stuffed toy or a child actor in the role wouldn’t have been very
interesting. A real monkey, which was borrowed from a monkey show, was brought
on stage but even that wasn’t very interesting. While they were eating their box
lunches the audience witnessed the monkey leap from Yojirō’s back onto the floor to
make a call (pee) which ended badly with en masse pandemonium amongst the
women in the audience. The problem with ingenious solutions is that they can result
in completely problematic consequences. The same mistake happened when Namiki
Gohei IV made the mistake of using a living horse.

Translator’s Note on Danjūrō’s haiku: My gratitude to Paul Griffiths for his help with
the interpretation of this haiku - As we all know, the hero carries an exceptionally
long sword in the play. Furthermore, the verb 'yuzuru' is in the passive form

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'yuzuRAREta'. 'Yuzuru' can mean several things but in this case I think it refers to
the sword being 'handed down to' or 'bestowed upon' Danjūrō IX by his ancestors
(as so much IS in the 'Jūhachiban' plays). 'Nuguwaba' is the verb 'to wipe' (拭う) plus
the particle ばや which expresses the desire to do something... basically 'want to' or
''wish to', or sometimes the intention 'I WOULD do something'. It makes sense if
Danjūrō wants to wipe the sword because it will have grown dusty after so long since
he last used it for this role. Finally, there is probably some connection between the
'dusty' sword and the 'frosty' weather. Wiping away the dust is like wiping the frost.
'Shimo hiyori' suggests the image of frost glinting in the sunlight, just like a sword
might glint. Paul Griffiths

I have another memory from the time I went to watch that performance of ‘Sukeroku’.
At the time I was going with my father to the Kabukiza Theatre. We were just leaving
the Bairin (Plum Grove) Tea House (Translator’s note: was located just behind the
Kabukiza*) and, having slipped on two out of the three pairs of sandals that were
there we were just about to walk away (I was wearing a finely detailed black crested
haori over jacket but no hat) when a slender man in his 50s who was coming back
into the tea house bumped into my father, greeting him…

*Performance of Momijigari filmed in 1899 in the garden of the Bairin Tea House
starring Ichikawa Danjūrō IX as Princess Sarashina and and Onoe Kikugorō V as
Tair no Koremochi http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q2_mz8bmrdQ

‘Yo! Wait a minute’
‘Thank you for waiting I really appreciate it’ the man said and politely bowed.
‘Come along with us’, replied my father who was by my side.

I was walking alongside that man and as we entered the theatre my father spoke to
him as he turned away heading once again back towards the tea house. We had
earlier spoken about the first Kabuki play that we were going to see, an expanded
version of ‘Shigemori Kangen’. We just managed to make the raising of the curtain
on Sumizō who was playing the scene as the high ranking Priest Hōin who invokes a
curse on the Heike (Taira) as thunder strikes. At this point Narichika, played by
Gonjūrō, and Toda no Kurōdo, played by Ennosuke, arrived on stage. Then there
was a danmari pantomime in the dark style scene in the plot which wasn’t as
interesting as the opening curtain raiser. A little while later, after the act had finished,
I turned to my father and enquired after the man who we had met earlier.

‘Actually, that was Morita’.
‘Morita… Kan’ya?’
‘Mmm. He used to be my advisor in the past, didn’t he? That was another time. He
really has gotten so very much older’

My father pulled a long face. In the circumstances I felt similarly somewhat desolate.
I wrote before how, in a different set of circumstances, I had first met and seen from
time to time the man called Morita Kan’ya. I had only met him when I was very young
and was unable to recognise him anymore. My father had been guided by a man of
some repute and now, after such a long time, as I resurrect his memory I remember
how old he had become. At around that time, as well as having aged quite a lot, he
used to dress Western style. He had, quite simply, lost his youth after the many
years of hard work managing the Shintomiza Theatre and getting his hands burnt.
He really was already a completely ruined man. To be sure, in all his negotiations
there had been various problems but it had been his sustained single minded and
skilful focus on the stage since the beginning of the Meiji period that had taken it out
of him. He had almost invariably been double crossed too many times and had built
up large debts, a burden he had found difficult to shoulder for such a long time. His

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success in developing and improving the theatre to which he applied himself with
such great effort and singular focus demands that he be writ large in the history of
the Meiji Theatre and should be acknowledged precisely because of what he
managed to achieve, and with such skill. At around this time, and because of the
circumstances at the time, the Kabukiza Theatre extended an invitation to him which
he accepted, an event that was significant in itself since they had been such rivals.
Their rivalry mutually put to one side he duly turned up. My father explained about
him that…

‘Morita is more than 700,000 to 800,000 yen* in debt. He really isn’t particularly up to
the challenge, and though this time his situation is unavoidable it would seem that he
is overwhelmed by his debts. If there is any chance of him finding some sort of
opportunity it seems likely that he would certainly soon once again launch another
business plan’.

I recall that on the second floor of the Bairin (Plum Grove) Tea House my father
talked to Morita Kan’ya about what was happening and about his circumstances. I
had also gone back there to listen to what he was saying. Even now, after such a
long time, I mourn his loss. How much more interesting were all those, what had
been uninteresting, danmari pantomimes in the dark. I still, unconsciously, have
deep-seated pleasant feelings about him.

That day was the last chance that I ever had of seeing him and saying goodbye.
Though I was told that Honjo’s one time rival was gradually withdrawing from public
life I remember that his acting troupe published a couple of articles in the
newspapers about a provincial tour to the prefectures neighbouring Kawagoe. The
next thing I knew was that in August Meiji 30 (1897) news of his death was already
being circulated. He died in his own home on Nakano-chō Street on the 21st August.
Apart from Kan’ya in Meiji 30 (1897) two other treasured actors were lost. One of
those people, who I have often talked about, was Ichikawa Shinzō. The other was
Onoe Kikunosuke II. I have frequently already explained about Shinzō as an actor
and what his circumstances were so I don’t intend to say much more about him. His
general health had deteriorated at the same time as his chronic eye disease became
increasingly serious. It also seemed that though his talent had also developed, his
role as Fukuyama in ‘Sukeroku’ was to be his last as he was unable to fulfil his stage
commitments and for the time being returned his acting permit to the authorities. I
understand that for someone who held such aspirations I dare say that this was a
bitter blow. During that time he really was completely incapacitated. After having
been ill in bed for a year in July Meiji 30 (1897) he passed away. I heard that he was
about 35 or 36 years old. After his death his disciples closed the business.

I should take this opportunity to say more about Kikunosuke, something which I
haven’t yet done. I said before that the first time I saw a play was at the Shintomiza
Theatre (9th March Meiji 12 - 1879). At the time the second act was ‘Money Makes
the World Go Around’ (Ningen Banji Kane no Yononaka, based on Edward Bulwer-
Lytton's ‘Money’) which had in it a really touching domestic scene in which a fortune
teller’s young boy appeared. A child actor who I didn’t recognise in the child’s role

159
called Sennosuke, who probably grabbed my attention and who quickly acquired the
actors name Onoe Kikunosuke. He was also the son of and taught by Onoe
Kikugorō V.

I remember all the strong roles he played later on in his life which were as Otoki, the
mute daughter, in ‘An Inscription of Mongaku’s Pardon’ (Ima Mongaku Jomei no
Horimono) at the Ichimuraza Theatre. At the Chitoseza Theatre the daughter of a
poor family called Oyuki in ‘Kobei, the Brush Maker’ (Suitengu Megumi no
Fukagawa), the nursemaid Otami in ‘The Tenement House Plum Blossom and the
Fireman Umekichi of Kaga’ (Mekura Nagaya Ume-ga-Kagatobi), and the merchant’s
daughter Onatsu in ‘The Cormorant Fisherman and His Lantern in the Darkness of
Love’ (Koi no Yami Ukai no Kagari-bi). Of course those were in addition to various
tachiyaku male specialist roles that he started playing. His strong roles always
achieved popular success particularly when he appeared playing a role in the
musumegata young girl style. However his weak points were that he had poor
rhythm, a skill which from my point of view never really improved, and that he was
inclined to speak in a lashing tone of voice which was really uncomfortable to listen
to which had a tendency to ruin his performances. Though he wasn’t Kikugorō V’s
real son he was brought up in Kikugorō V’s house. He was someone I recognised
from when I was part of a group of people who hung around the backstage dressing
rooms. In Meiji 19 (1886), after the last time I had seen him in his role as Onatsu in
‘The Cormorant Fisherman and His Lantern’ (Ukai no Kagari-bi), he suddenly and
completely disappeared from the Tōkyō stage. He had been told that he would be
disinherited if he got together with a ‘certain’ woman* so he left for Ōsaka.

*Translator’s note: This would have been Otoku, Kikunosuke’s younger brother’s wet
nurse with whom he had fallen in love, married and then went with to Ōsaka when he
fell out with Kikugorō over their relationship.

In Ōsaka Kikunosuke’s reputation suffered. He changed his name to Shōkō. I had
wondered afterwards what sort of life in the theatre he had led for those next five
years. I didn’t know and I really didn’t care. It was reported that as a young male
actor called Onoe Shōkō he had wandered around various places in the vicinity of
Kyōto and Ōsaka undergoing extraordinary hardships in spite of which he wouldn’t
apologise. He then resurfaced at Onoe Kikugorō V’s home, his previously registered
legal residence. From Spring Meiji 24 (1891) he once again appeared on the Tōkyō
stage. It was in the Kabukiza Theatre’s Spring performance run, after he had an
interview with his master with whom he had been studying. He played the role of
Ushiwakamaru in ‘Mount Kurama’ (Kuramayama, which portrays Minamoto no
Yoshitsune’s training at Mount Kurama) in a danmari pantomime in the dark. His
adoptive father played Tenmei Tarō who was disguised as a weak tengu goblin.
Besides that he also played the role of Kōnoshita in the middle act in ‘A Chronicle of
Faith’ (Shinkō-ki, aka A Chronicle of the Gion Festival of Faith, Gion Sairei Shinkō-
ki). The problem with his rhythm which was mentioned earlier was unsalvageable.
He wasn’t very popular or very glamorous.

At this point and at the same time as this performance run he returned to the Capital
and changed his name back from Shōkō to Kikunosuke. Furthermore from rumours I
knew very well that it had been considered strange for him to have called himself
Shōkō, something he naturally soon discarded. I have previously mentioned, in

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passing, that as a consequence of this situation a ‘certain woman’ had become the
recipient of Kikunosuke’s adoptive father’s dislike. She and Kikunosuke had
wandered around the vicinity of Kyōto and Ōsaka together and during that period,
when they were living together, had experienced many hardships. At the time when
he was returning into his master’s service, there was a bit of a problem that left them
both in something of a quandary in that he would be required to leave ‘that woman’.
He had originally been driven away by his adoptive family and yet he had still
cohabited with ‘that woman’. In returning to the service of his master the people
around Kikugorō, who had reorganised, started to speak freely and in almost one
voice about how regrettable those circumstances had been. ‘That woman’
acquiesced saying that she was pulling away, back from her earlier stance This was
the time when it would be opportune for her to leave Kikunosuke, though she did not
make a public pledge to do so. At the time she definitely separated from Kikunosuke
and went away but kept quiet about it. Kikunosuke was a little bit hesitant about
these arrangements. It was in this atmosphere that he began to succumb to
everyone else’s persuasiveness so that he also definitely separated from ‘that
woman’. His return to Tōkyō was auspicious, though with such a sad parting many
tears were shed.

Translator’s Note: The story of Onoe Kikunosuke II’s dispute with Onoe Kikugorō V
was popularised in Kenji Mizoguchi’s 1939 film ‘The Story of the Late
Chrysanthemums’ (Zangiku Monogatari, 残菊物語, 菊 kiku, a pun on the names of
Kiku/nosuke and Kiku/gorō) which was based on the novel by Muramatsu Shōfu.

Did Kikunosuke afterwards secretly correspond with ‘that woman’? Or was it possible
that he completely broke off relations with her? Did she also do the same? I didn’t
hear anything more, but having heard about their situation I was watching the stage
for some sort of outcome. It was obvious that the figure of Kikunosuke was being
followed by and under the dark shadow of his past and that he was somewhat
isolated as an actor. Essentially he was very good natured, even if his rhythm was
poor and he cast a lonely figure on stage. Even one or two years later he had not
developed much. His adoptive father was certainly complimentary about his
suitability for the roles he played, even if audiences weren’t very complimentary in
their regard for him about his quality as an actor. As regards his on stage presence
as an actor he was considered indispensable by Kikugorō’s acting troupe. In Meiji 25
(1892) at the O-Bon performance run at the Kabukiza Theatre from time to time he
played the role of Hagiwara Shinsaburō in is ‘Tales of the Peony Lantern‘ (Botan
Dōrō), a role which won him popular acclaim. In addition to this he also played the
role of Omasu, the Sekiguchiya shop’s maidservant, a role in which he picked up on
the mood of and was inspired by the curse placed on the wife’s ghost by his master’s
character Sekiguchya Banzō.

Was their rivalry really forgotten? Was it possible that the turning point in his art was
knocking at the door? After that show almost all of his performances were popular.
The following year, Meiji 26 (1893), he perfectly portrayed the role of Ushiwaka Denji
in ‘Sukeroku of the Black Hand Gang‘ (Kurotegumi Sukeroku) during the March
performance run at the Kabukiza Theatre. Though his rhythm was always poor, his
voice sharp and words incoherent, he was at the time popular. And so, as a young
male actor, he was counting on a promising future. His wagoto soft style of acting
and his onnagata female specialist roles were regarded as triumphs. Could it be said

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that he and Shinzō were complete opposites? On stage they were destined to be
viewed as somewhat melancholy characters. It was common talk at the time that
they both suffered ill health.

I’d like to say something about Kikunosuke’s final gesture. In February Meiji 30
(1897) he played the role of Princess Komachi Hime in ‘Love at the Barrier Gate‘
(Seki no To) at the Kabukiza Theatre alongside Danjūrō as Sekibei, Kikugorō as
Sumizome, and Ichikawa Somegorō IV as Munesada. This one act jōruri sung
narrative with shamisen accompaniment was magnificent and popular. The
execution of Danjūrō’s Sekibei and Kikunosuke’s Princess Komachi Hime were on
equal footing and were acclaimed by theatre lovers. In his dressing room Danjūrō
heaped praise for ten minutes on the performance though it was only about
Kikugorō’s preparation and the basis of his skill in dancing. Immediately afterwards
Kikunosuke took to his sick bed and by the end of June his short life was over. It
seemed that, along with the other actor Shinzō, their lives had been too short. In my
own selfish way I would like to believe that I have been a witness to them.

So then… Shinzō, Kikunosuke, both of them excellent, outstanding actors who
departed when I really didn’t want them to go. I am unusually and profoundly filled
with grief. As a child accompanying my father I can say that I was granted the
opportunity as a child to witness Kikunosuke’s growing development in the theatre.
Shinzō’s disciples suspended his business. What am I trying to say about them with
this information? We did nothing but be witness to and appreciate their glamorous
life as actors, something which for both of them has not been lost to posterity.

A Kabuki Play’s Climax – An Experience of Shibuja Fashion – Ushinosuke’s
Tearjerker – The Censure of Several Newspapers – A Performance Suspension
Order

What I’ve also mentioned is that for several years the Kabukiza Theatre was the
centre of focus for the theatrical world which included the acting guilds of Ichikawa
Danjūrō IX and Onoe Kikugorō V and also of Nakamura Fukusuke IV, two of whom I
have mentioned were part of the most famous triumvirate of Kabuki actors. Naturally
those mentioned here were widely popular.

I talked before a little about Kikunosuke’s performance in the in the play ‘Love at the
Barrier Gate’ (Seki no To) in February Meiji 30 (1897). In the same performance
Ichikawa Somegorō IV’s fledgling performance in the role of Munesada was
somewhat unfavourably compared to that of Onoe Kikunosuke II’s as Princess
Komachi Hime. Amongst other things it was interesting to note that the performances
of Danjūrō as Kuronushi, and Kikugorō as Sumizome were simply marvellous. It is
perhaps unreasonable, after having witnessed this performance, for them not to
have remained in my thoughts. It is disappointing that I am unable to adequately
reflect on those people. It was around then that Meiji Era Kabuki reached its
apotheosis but the period afterwards marked the beginning of the end of the place
that I loved. It was during this period the famous music of the Rinchū School of
Tokiwazu sung narrative occasionally managed to entrance the entire audience.
Though these days society’s expectations have changed I am going on the
experience from those days of what audiences were like thirty years ago. I didn’t
imagine, and can attest to, what people said at the time. The older generation who at
the time complained or made excuses have since gone though I have to say that I
was then one of those people. In spite of the circumstances of the time I did have
one of life’s good fortunes to have been able to see Kabuki plays at their grandest.

That having been said in April Meiji 30 (1897) at the Kabukiza Theatre the play ‘The
Chivalrous Commoner and the Spring Rain Umbrella’* (Kyōkaku Harusame Gasa)
was in the listings. It was adapted by the independent scholar Fukuchi Ōchi from an
earlier short story of his which was published by the Shun’yō Dō publishing
company. His characterisation and the performances on stage weren’t very good.
Danjūrō’s Ōguchiya Gyōu and Ichikawa Yaozō VII’s Tsurigane Shōbei were both
very popular and I should also say that their unprecedented popularity is probably
what accounted for the full houses at the time. Gyōu appeared holding a janome
‘snake eyed’ umbrella (Translator’s note: original text ‘shibuja no me no kasa’,
python eyed umbrella) which for a while correspondingly became the increasingly
fashionable thing to be seen with around town. However Danjūrō didn’t personally
take to this role with his usual aplomb and even though, at the time, it drew full
houses it was usually as a result of repeat visits by the same people. What someone
said about the issue at the time was that ‘It’s curious that at the very least, since it’s
been such a long time since Danjūrō has performed in sewamono domestic dramas,
that he wants to return to performing them’, or something like that, which wasn’t
really very fair. “Jiji Shinpō” (Current Affairs Newspaper) meted out scathing criticism
about this Kabuki play joining the debate by writing that Kabuki plays at Japan’s
foremost Kabukiza Theatre and Japan’s top actor, Ichikawa Danjūrō, should be

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advertised as being staged and performed for the Yoshiwara red light district,
questioning whether his performance was much of a success. However, it wasn’t
apparent that there were going to be any negative repercussions from this as the
increasingly packed full houses continued. They also wrote that even though this
Kabuki play did after all involve other actors would it have continued to be performed
if it had been without Danjūrō’s involvement? …and that it was only as a result of his
involvement that the play was pulling in full houses.

* Translator’s Note: a rare performance of this play most recently took place at the
Kabukiza Theatre in June 2007

At the time in the middle act Danjūrō played the role of Hangaku breaking the gate in
the play ‘The Herculean Woman‘ (Wada Kassen Onna Maizuru) which had a
conventional script. The character of Hangaku appeared in the Breaking the Gate
scene with a pony tail and headband, wearing a (man’s) hitatare ancient ceremonial
court robe, kote armoured sleeves, suneate shin armour, and ke’gutsu fur boots in a
katsureki historical drama style production. The audience’s general reaction was
astonishment and the role was much maligned because of the lack of distinction
between whether the character was male or female. People said they would have
found it more interesting had the character been played as a graceful woman
wearing an uchikake heavily embroidered robe pushing at the gate using a piece of
folded paper, a futokorogami, that had been tucked in her kimono. The real picture
was that of a woman flaunting her samurai ancestry. Undoubtedly this storyline was
creatively contrived from the originally published story and at the end I had
completely lost interest. This katsureki historical drama of Danjūrō’s was the one
thing that was targeted for criticism. Such inferiority I bore with stoicism. Gyōu was,
contrary to the very unpopular Hangaku, very popular.

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Ichikawa Yaozō as Asoriro (left) and Ichikawa Danjūrō as Hangaku (right) in ‘The Herculean Woman’ (Wada Kassen Onna
Maizuru) which was performed at the Kabukiza Theatre in April 1897. By Toyohara Kunichika

That year for the Kabukiza Theatre’s July performance run ‘The Hanging Web
Patterned Lantern of Chrysanthemum and Paulownia Leaf’ (Amimoyō Tōrō no
Kikukiri) was advertised. This, Mokuami’s own work, was also known as ’Kozaru
Shichinosuke’ with which the previous generation’s Ichikawa Kodanji IV had a big hit
in Ansei 4 (1857) during the Ichimuraza Theatre’s O-Bon performance run. For the
Meiji 30 (1897) July performance run Onoe Kikugorō V played Kozaru Shichinosuke
and Onoe Matsusuke IV played Amiuchi Shichigorō. It was written for, and I expect
that it was excellently performed by, the second to none duo of Ichikawa Kodanji IV
・Bandō Kamezō I. That same expectation for the July Meiji 30 (1897) performance
wasn’t met. Nakamura Fukusuke III as Goshuden Okuma and Yaozō as Yoshirō
were unusually tiresome and I felt that the audiences were also oddly tiresome. I can
clearly recall now seeing Onoe Kikugorō VI on stage when on that occasion he was
a child actor called Onoe Ushinosuke II playing the role of Kozaru Shichinosuke’s
younger blind sister Onami, the little masseuse. Onoe Kikugorō V who achieved
such fame, and who was formerly known as Ichimura Uzaemon XIII, was his father.
In a turnaround at another time it was Onoe Kikugorō VI’s turn to appear on stage in
place of his father, Onoe Kikugorō V, in the role of Kozaru Shichinosuke. At that time
Onoe Kikugorō VI’s child, Onoe Ushinosuke IV, played Onami. The all appeared in
the same scene at Amiuchi Shichigorō’s house in the Mikaduki (Crescent Moon)
tenement block. The original actors’ roles have gone and Kozaru Ushinosuke isn’t
performed anymore.

The “Jiji Shinpō” (Current Affairs Newspaper), already armed with its earlier criticism
turned its focus on this Kabuki play. In a different way from the criticism that had
been directed at ‘Spring Rain Umbrella’ (Harasume Gasa), this time all of Tōkyō’s
many newspapers almost simultaneously ganged up together in agreement and with
one voice launched a critical attack. The newspapers were all filled with drama
critics’ comments saying that the play was cruel, obscene, immoral and quite literally
loathsome. Though Kikugorō, a servant of the theatre, had personally presented this
Kabuki play, listening to this and with due consideration he was unsure about
whether to continue advertising it. Furthermore though Kikugorō was really uncertain
about the two or three Kabuki plays that had been chosen he took a chance with
them in the same way as he had all along with his Kozaru Shichinosuke. Though as
a servant of the theatre in the end he eventually broke the promise he had made to
comply. Anyway, though this Kabuki play drew it’s really sad and gloomy
atmosphere from a brutal real life incident there was no possible way it could have
stayed in its original form and it was expected that the Keishichō Metropolitan Police
Department would discontinue its license. Even though many venues cancelled as
time came for the opening performance the newspaper companies’ criticism became
excessively vehement to the point that nearby theatres were quite taken aback.

Having been forsakenly surrounded by opponents on all sides who said at the time
that after such a long time though there was no longer any reason for its suspension.
Within the space of one week of performances, and bowing to seething public
opinion, the Keishichō Metropolitan Police Department issued a suspension order
preventing any further performances. As a consequence of the suspension order a
replacement was pulled together as a substitute performance. At first it was only the
middle act of a tōshi kyōgen full length play which showcased Yaozō as Munekiyo,
and Fukusuke as Tokiwa Gozen that was performed. This ‘Munekiyo’ (Translator’s
note: possibly scene two of act three of ‘The Heike and the Isle of Women’, Heike
Nyogo no Shima) was performed in the tokiwazu style of jōruri sung narrative with
shamisen accompaniment. Inevitably, as a consequence of the suspension order,
the entire tōshi kyōgen full length play was performed as a substitute piece. Later on,

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when it was around about mid-summer, people who had seen these Kabuki plays
were becoming increasingly hesitant about seeing new ones. It was at this point that,
accepting that its success was uncertain, the Kabukiza Theatre completely
suspended all performances. It was determined that the responsibility for this lay with
Kikugorō himself for his obstinacy in presenting only his Kabuki plays. I heard that he
had been extremely annoyed and had very indignantly commented ‘Though once I
was engaged with approval, after having received such an unfavourable blow what’s
the point in once again pursuing the path on which I had set myself?’. Still the
Keishichō Metropolitan Police Department, because it had taken what it felt was a
justified view had, when the script (for Kozaru Shichinosuke) was first delivered,
deemed it unsuitable and it was subsequently returned. Furthermore, it was decided
that once the script had been sufficiently revised an appeal could be lodged for its
approval. After two or three times of it going back and forth and taking advice it was
finally given the approval to go ahead. Even so when I saw it on stage it still wasn’t
very good. The public were especially passionate in their criticism. They said that
any further approval should be revoked and it was. What was the further
consequence of such severe criticism being voiced? It was that the Kabukiza
Theatre closed its doors until November of that year.

The problem that resulted in the suspension order was a special case. It was one of
Kikugorō’s parts in the middle of this Kabuki play that generated such animosity and
which was deemed so scandalous. The character Kozaru Shichinosuke visits the
house of, and continues to torment and curse the departed soul of, his father
Amiuchi Shichigorō. It was a sewa’ba scene depicting a life of suffering and poverty
in which he played opposite Fukusuke’s character Shichigorō. A statement of
condolence to Kikugorō had only recently been announced (Note: on the premature
death of his adopted son Onoe Kikunosuke II in June 1897). It couldn’t be helped but
for everyone to feel very, very sad and many tears were shed alongside the idle
grumbling with someone commenting that this was ‘very tiresome and forced on us’,
and that he had ‘confused his own domestic life with the stage'. Another said that it
was more like he was in some way ‘playing to the gallery’. In the circumstances
some were more inclined to weeping while the rest carried on grumbling about how
tiresome it was.

In those circumstances Kikugorō was generally really quite idiosyncratic. In June the
following year Meiji 31 (1898), still at the Kabukiza Theatre, he occasionally
performed in ‘Tenjiku Tokubei’. If I remember correctly it was on the third day that, as
usual, the newspapers’ drama critics had been invited along. I went along to watch at
the same time. The drama critics, along with other various men, gathered together
and took their places in the west sajiki gallery. In the prologue to ‘Tenjiku Tokubei’
people who live on the waterfront gather together to share tales about the countries
that they have been to when they have been travelling away from Tōkyō. So
Kikugorō gave the new Ginza Avenue Neighbourhood Association a spoken
rendition of Tokubei’s various speeches in the play about Tenjiku (India). He did the
same at a large brick factory and also at all the newspapers companies. One of the
people at one of the newspaper companies was a woman with whom he had spoken
who he had an indiscreet affair with. He didn’t actually make such speeches every
day. When he looked over the newspaper companies’ employees who were there in
the west sajiki gallery, with whom he had done the same, and said that he
‘understood’ I sensed that he was paying them a courtesy and then while laughing

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he turned towards the rest of the audience and guffawed. As one would expect they
didn’t take kindly to the joke and became seriously angry. In the interval we were
hearing people muttering things like, ‘Didn’t they learn their lesson from last year?’,
and, ’it’s so disgraceful!’ Unless I am mistaken he did with this with malign intention.
His repeatedly dubious behaviour and on stage deviations like those of the previous
year’s Kozaru Shichinosuke and with Tenjiku Tokubei were regarded with deep
suspicion and that he was unable to be respectful. However that Tokubei was really
good and performed with great skill. An illustration of this that was spoken of was
when, during the blind masseurs part with his mokkin (a sort of bamboo xylophone)
“the narrator knew just when the sleight of hand occurred during this” and delicately
judged the quality of sound. It seemed that unless the man was acquainted with the
dance this would not have been the case.

The individual who played a chamber maid with the koto, Bandō Ayame was really
excellent. Ayame was really tall and had a very large physique. He wasn’t really
suitable as an onnagata female role specialist and though I wondered why he
appeared as a woman his tone of voice and his carriage were good. Since the Meiji
Era I had not heard anything about his whereabouts and wondered what he could
possibly have been doing during that time. A long time since he had last appeared
on stage, in June of Taishō 12 (1923) at the Teikoku Gekijō Imperial Theatre, he
occasionally performed in my play ‘Ryōgoku Autumn’ (Ryōgoku no Aki). Twenty five
or twenty six years had already passed since he had appeared in that performance
of Tenjiku Tokubei. He still appeared as a woman though he was losing his voice
and I heard that he was also going blind. Though that being said his laughter still
was really that of a woman. Two or three years later it was reported in his
neighbourhood newspapers that he had died suddenly at his Asakusa home. He was
a single man and as his door had been closed for a whole day his neighbours
thought they should try to peek in. I wonder for how long he had been dead?

Bandō Ayame at the Chitoseza Theatre, January 1885 (5th from the left rear row in the full print)

Translator’s Note: On the character of Gyō from the play Theatre the play ‘Kyōkaku
Harusame Gasa’ (The Chivalrous Commoner and the Spring Rain Umbrella). The
character of Gyōu was included in the one hundred roles of Ichikawa Danjūrō IX. It
has been suggested that the character of Gyōu was based on the real life of a
dashing young rice warehouse or fish wholesaler from the Edo period’s Asakusa
District called Owake Sukeroku or Tozawa Sukeroku and also that he might actually
have been a rice broker called Gyōu Oguchiya from Edo’s Kuramae area, the
location of the rice wholesale warehouses, who was renowned as someone who was

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stylish, cultured and generous and was the model for Kabuki’s Sukeroku. It has also
been suggested that Gyōu regularly visited the Yoshiwara Pleasure District dressed
as Sukeroku and was quite pleased that he was referred to as the ‘contemporary
Sukeroku’. The principle role of Gyōu Oguchiya was written into a story by Fukuchi
Ōchi which he then jointly adapted as a Kabuki play with Enokido Kenji.

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Part 29 Matasaburō and Kōsha

Tuppeny Danjūrō (Nisen Danshū) – Matasaburō at Work at the Kabukiza – The
Anger of Dankikusa (Danjūrō, Kikugorō and Sadanji) – Asakusa Park’s Popular
Character – The Traditional Way of Acting

This part has been written as a somewhat limited discussion about actors in minor
drama.

It appears that today no one talks about them. In those days Tuppeny Danjūrō
(Nisen Danshū aka Bandō Matasaburō II) was an admired actor. His reputation and
ability were both recognised by theatre goers. His commonly used and recognised
nickname was “Tuppeny Danjūrō” (Nisen Danshū) and I also often went to see
Tuppeny Danjūrō’s plays. Apart from his stage appearances it isn’t possible for me to
write in complete detail about his personality or his circumstances with which I am
not that well acquainted. Anyway, he was an interesting actor. In those days, when
he was known publicly as Tuppeny Danjūrō, he worked out of the Ryūseiza Theatre.
The Ryūseiza Theatre, which was by Asakusa at Yanagiwara, was a Minor Theatre
(shōgekijō) – although it might be considered as being in the category of theatres
that performed donchō shibai drop curtain plays it had been partially constructed with
a sajiki gallery and takadoma dirt floor boxes though for the most part it was made
up of hiradoma central floor seating. The entrance fee was only two sen.
Unquestionably and consistently cheap, the catering provided was soba noodles in
hot broth, one serving of which was one sen or for a larger portion two sen. His stage
name as zagashira (head of an acting troupe) was Bandō Wakō.

He hadn’t long been in the business as a donchō drop curtain actor, and as he had
been a disciple of Bandō Mitsugorō VI he benefitted from Grand Kabuki.
Unfortunately I don’t know much about what he did before that. My acquaintance
with him began at the Ryūseiza Theatre of the old days where, curiously, he often
copied Danjūrō. In those days he worked as a Minor Theatre actor in what was
called the donchō kusai (clumsy drop curtain) style of acting, a speciality which, in
his spirited way, he succeeded nine times out of ten.

At the Ryūseiza Theatre he played (Ota) Kazuyoshi entirely in Danjūrō’s shibuigei
(beautifully restrained refined but austere) style which he increasingly appeared to
copy meticulously and somehow his on stage features assumed those of Danjūrō.
He also, in turn, skilfully imitated Danjūrō’s speech. In this way it seemed that he
began to always to duplicate Danjūrō’s roles. His main competitor was an actor who
had exceptional skills called Nakamura Baijaku I who was later promoted to a senior
nadai actor at the Kabukiza Theatre called Nakamura Kanemon II. Anyway, the
entrance fee for this Minor Theatre was two sen and for the most part the audience
was made up of ladies from the tenement houses with their baby sitters. It wasn’t
often that he could be seen when he wasn’t playing scenes in the style of Danjūrō so
that eventually the more cautious members of the theatre public would be drawn in.
Once I went to watch one of his performances as Kazuyoshi separately from my
drama expert friends who all, like me, were mutually attracted by the vogue at that
time for his performances, make up and costumes. So I was on my own in the
audience when I first went to the Ryūseiza Theatre on the occasion of a performance
of “The Drum of Sakai” (Sakai no Taiko). He played Kazuyoshi in Danjūrō’s style for

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the entire duration of the play. In the circumstances, his accomplishment in
continuing to copy Danjūrō was still something of an artistic skill. I wonder what that
degree of imitation could be called, though in his version he did manage to vary his
tone of voice from that of Danjūrō’s. I thought that to just flawlessly imitate Danjūrō
on stage was an impossible expectation and that he would need to stay within the
scope of his ability. He displayed considerable dancing skills as Kazuyoshi, and
succeeded in displaying more poise as the Mountain Witch Yamanba and as
Sekibei.

From Meiji 24 (1891) for about five years he used his Danjūrō impersonations as the
gimmick with which to publicise himself. Up to that point there hadn’t been much said
about what he had been doing at the Ryūseiza Theatre, to where the so called
drama experts had been travelling, all writing rave reviews which from around that
time then began appearing. Who was the person then being talked about in public
who until then had been unknown? He was the so called Tuppeny Danjūrō (Nisen
Danshū). Danshū was Danjūrō’s pseudonym. His nickname was a combination of
that and the entrance fee of two sen, or nisen; Nisen Danshū (Tuppeny Danjūrō).
Although it was only two sen, Nisen, alongside the name Danshū he seemed
immensely proud of it.

He was almost, but not quite, satisfied for the five or six years during which he was
known as Tuppeny (Nisen). When, as the disciple of Morita Kan’ya, his name was
changed to Bandō Matasaburō II he was crying out for an opportunity. At that time
he had been stepping on stage for many years at the Ryūseiza Theatre and had
afterward worked more at Asakusa Park’s Miyatoza Theatre. Though they were both
known as Minor Theatres the Ryūseiza and Miyatoza Theatres were both of a
different status, their actors being more in keeping with those performing in the
traditional world of Kabuki Theatre, something which certainly made him all the more
successful. It was here that he triumphantly performed his strong roles such as
Kōchiyama, Chūshingura’s Yuranosuke, Suzu ga Mori’s Chobei, Terakoya’s Genzō,
and Momijigari’s witch, all Danjūrō stock in trade popular roles. During this time,
spanning the approximate period between Meiji 30-32 (1897-1899), the acting troupe
included Nakamura Shikan IV, Ichimura Kakitsu VI, Sawamura Tosshō III, the
previous generation Sawamura Tosshi VII, Onoe Kikushirō III, and Iwai Matsunosuke
IV.

Soon after that, Nisen retired from his life of acting in the theatre, at the same time
giving up the name Tuppeny Danjūrō. Though he’d definitely been lucky there had
also been some bad luck. It was the same for the acting troupe I mentioned before
with whom he had laid on such a splendid programme of theatrical performances. He
had clearly been expected to reach the rank of nadai, chief actor, while he was
working as the Director of Shibaidō, the Way of Drama, at the Ryūseiza Theatre, or
something like that. I knew personally through third parties, some of Nisen’s donchō
drop curtain plays’ actors, that it was as a result of illness that his continued
successful development was interrupted. He had trodden the boards on the
Kabukiza Theatre’s stage in August (1899) with the acting troupe I mentioned before,
Kakitsu, Matsunosuke, and Kikushirō et al, who had been joined by Sawamura
Gennosuke IV. As servants of the theatre they had taken up with Matasaburō, who
was appearing as the special attraction. He who I had first seen in the piece ‘The

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Drum of Sakai’ (Sakai no Taiko) I now saw in the jōruri sung narrative with shamisen
piece ‘Mountain Witch’ (Yamanba).

At the time the real Danjūrō was away on a mid-summer break and Kikugorō had
gone on a touring show. As Matasaburō had been encouraged to perform at the
Kabukiza Theatre while they were both away they were both extremely displeased.
Kikugorō summoned and belligerently rebuked his nephew Kakitsu. It was
understood that out of all of them Kakitsu had been with Matasaburō at the Miyatoza
Theatre the longest and that now, after such a long time, he should no longer be
there. Perhaps he was blamed because he had appeared on stage at the Kabukiza
Theatre at the same time as and alongside Matasaburō. Danjūrō was also extremely
angry and aimed sharp rebukes at those servants of the theatre. Though not from
personal observation, I was aware that this situation was a really tough one when
both Danjūrō and Kikugorō had openly and angrily issued a reprimand to them
saying that, as servants of the theatre, they should not have been there. Even
though they gathered around themselves a group of professionals who supported
them by saying that this was a really boring issue, or possibly because they were
putting on an act and behaving arrogantly, they were bullied because of their status
as servants of the theatre. Luckily Kakitsu wasn’t disowned and the Kabukiza
Theatre intervened quickly to bring about reconciliation. Danjūrō and Kikugorō were
both referred to as those two imperial generals when in October they raised the
curtain on and performed in the first act ‘A Mirror of Divided Loyalty’ (Futa Omote
Chūgi Kagami), the middle act ‘Keya Village’ (Keya Mura), and in the second act
‘The New Dish Palace’ (Shin Sarayashiki) which all proved extremely unpopular
attracting a poor turnout. Both generals looked miserable.

(Right) Onoe Kikugorō as the Fishmonger Sōgurō and (left) and Nakamura Fukusuke IV as the mistress Otsuta in the play
‘Shin Sarayashiki’ (New Dish Palace) the second act of ‘Futa Omote Chūgi Kagami’ (A Mirror of Divided Loyalty) performed at
the Kabukiza Theatre in September 1899

‘At a guess it’s probably as a consequence of being so offhand and rebuking
Matasaburō on stage’, they remarked, along with more professional insults.

It’s understood that Matasaburō only worked once at the Kabukiza Theatre after
which he returned to the Miyatoza Theatre. Then after that he worked at the
Harukiza Theatre. With that he once again sold himself by using the usual Tuppeny

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Danjūrō (Nisen Danshū). He suffered heavily from chronic asthma and for a while
had been absent from the stage when it was reported in newspaper articles that he
had died at his own home in Shitaya Ikenohata. As I recall it was in February Meiji 39
(1906).

An actor whose life played out in a way somewhat similar to that of Tuppeny Danjūrō
(Nisen Danshū) was an actor called Ichikawa Kōsha. He had previously been called
Himematsu. Though he was an actor of the Grand Kabuki tradition in his middle
years he ended up performing at Minor Theatres. It was at the start of this that I first
saw him at Asakusa Park’s Tokiwaza Theatre. He was at the Tokiwaza Theatre for a
long time. Kōsha said that the park’s theatre was his favourite. He was good at
playing both Kazuyoshi in the style of Danjūrō, and Benten Kozo in the style of
Kikugorō. Because during that period the cast varied a great deal his acting troupe
consisted of both Bandō Hinasuke and Onoe Tamimaru II. After the Miyatoza
Theatre he pretty much retired from casting though that by no means meant that he
was an inferior actor.

I heard that though Matasaburō was quite a meek person Kōsha, on the other hand,
appeared to be very obstinate. Once in the middle of a performance at the Tokiwaza
Theatre he was verbally abused by a member of the audience whereupon from on
stage he forcefully yelled back…

‘I’ll be damned if I’m going to put up with you ‘bear’ guys experiencing this play!’

In those days the term “bear” was a slang word used to insult someone. However it
was from on stage, from the actor himself that the ‘bear’ insult had been hurled at the
group of ōmukō, kakegoe callers, who were at the front of the gated tachimi seki
standing section of the rear gallery. As a consequence it was only him that ended up
being taken away. The other part of the group in the standing section didn’t know
what was going on and for a while there was uproar in the large crowd in that
section. Insults were hurled at the stage and at Kōsha and given the circumstances
the first act was unfortunately completely ruined. He was quickly dragged away by
both arms and his behaviour in the Grand Kabuki dressing room became almost
unbearable. What possible advantage a temper like this could be to him I don’t know.

After that he crossed over to minor drama and his later years were spent working at
Kanda Misaki-chō’s Tōkyōza Theatre (anyway, at the Grand Theatre he had been on
stage and opened alongside Danjūrō and Fukusuke but after working at other inferior
theatres he was ruined) only appearing when there was a ceremonial Kōjō
announcement of an actor’s promotion to the senior actors’ rank of nadai. Once he
had performed to the best of his ability, after he returned to minor plays his
reputation was lost. Where did he work then? After that I don’t know anything about
his whereabouts. I did hear a rumour that not long afterwards that, in Taishō 1
(1912), he died. Where he died remains a question. I don’t know anything more
about him.

What more is there to say about them? Matasaburō and Kōsha were both actors of
suitable ability. Though they received suitable acclaim from the public they did
unfortunately end up as so called donchō drop curtain actors. At the time they were
people who certainly had a lot of personality. There were also other reasons. It is in

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the Shibaidō, the Way of Drama, that there are those who, though they make
something of an appearance, mostly hover in the background. As donchō drop
curtain actors they were scorned professionally and as a group such actors lived
their daily lives and careers in the shade. That sort of misfortune still affects all of
them. I feel somewhat forlorn at this point as I write this.

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Part 30 Nakamura Shikan IV

The Popularity of the Edo Period – Dankikusa (Danjūrō, Sadanji and Kikugorō) are
Overwhelming – Without Conformity in the New Age – Shikan’s Theatrical Dignity –
Dance Drama Triumphant

Typically when talking of the Meiji Era the first people I speak of are the so called
Dankikusa (Ichikawa Danjūrō IX, Onoe Kikugorō V and Ichikawa Sadanji I). Of
course this is something that I invariably do and after such a long time and in regards
to this I am duty bound not to take a different opinion. It is quite simply out of an
instance of sentimentality that I speak of the reputation of the actor Nakamura
Shikan IV who I believe I have regrettably not made much mention of.

It’s not my intention here whilst talking about his career to tittle tattle. In that case,
from what I know this introduction will be uncomplicated. He was born in Dōtonbori in
Ōsaka and was placed with Nakamura Utaemon III’s adopted son Nakamura
Utaemon IV. Incidentally in Tenpō 9 (1838) when he was nine years old he went with
his adoptive father to Edo. To begin with his name was Nakamura Tamatarō I, after
being Nakamura Fukusuke I his name was changed to Nakamura Shikan IV. In the
twelve years between the first year of the Kōka Era (1844) to the final year of the
Keiō Era (1868) he reached his peak of popularity. I was told by an expert that he
was even more popular than Ichikawa Kodanji IV who it was agreed had been at his
most popular when he had been seen in Edo after his return from Ōsaka. Ichikawa
Kodanji IV was already popular, Ichikawa Sadanji I certainly was, as too were
Ichikawa Danjūrō IX and Onoe Kikugorō V though in their younger days they weren’t
in competition with him.

Shikan’s popularity was flourishing sufficiently enough to bring on board the Meiji
public. Of course, with approval, he was advancing towards attaining the rank of
zagashira, the head of a Kabuki acting troupe. Unfortunately from Meiji 10 (1877),
the so called Golden Age of Shintomi-chō, he was left in a situation where he was in
second place in the world of the Tōkyō theatre which had been overwhelmed by the
hegemony of Dankikusa as well as the Kabuki play authors Segawa Jokō III and
Sakurada Jisuke III who had been very successful since the advent of the Meiji Era.
It just so happened that their acting and literary styles were suitably appropriate to
the tastes of the Meiji Era audiences.

Though this was a fact it can also be said that he had, as much as he was able,
become more ambitious and dynamic in a way similar to that of the mature Ichikawa
Danzō VII and had achieved a reputation and was regarded and admired by some
as an expert in classical drama about which he was generally selflessly
disinterested. He seemed to be more like a childlike recluse. In his younger days he
had fallen from a tree and badly struck his head. For a while from that point on it was
said that he continued to suffer symptoms akin to epilepsy. To what extent this was
as a result of a malfunction of his brain wasn’t known. It should be said that in those
days his involvement in Shibaidō, the Way of Drama, was next to nothing. He had a
capacity for being unselfish, gentle, and sincere and was a good natured person. He
was virtuous in all his worldly affairs and had no interest in or desired things of value
or money. He was nothing other than well-disposed towards, and praised, his
master. I don’t know but perhaps he kept any criticism out of earshot. Nevertheless

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during his last years he was able to acquire a devoted popular following of those who
gathered to watch him in the world of the Edo theatre. There is more to say about the
kind of natural talent that he had hitherto displayed. It so happened that there was
sudden change from his natural disposition during the early days of the Meiji Era’s
theatrical world to when he seemed to become a somewhat distant figure. The very
progressive proprietor of the Shintomiza Theatre encouraged him in the same way
as he had done with Morita Kan’ya and it was expected that, as an advocate for
progress in the world of the theatre, he would try something different but it didn’t
appear so.

He was someone who was a really famous dance expert who was extolled, at the
same time as Danjūrō and Shikan, as peerless in the world of the theatre. I
remember that around that time it happened that his aptitude for Edo era dialogue
was famously off the mark. As a result his casting in Jidaimono period drama was
cut surprisingly short and, somewhat perplexingly, he also lost out on all the new
literary works. His associates were also embarrassed at losing him. After middle age
those faults became increasingly excessive to the point where it became scandalous
and it turned out that after the advent of Meiji period that he wasn’t good enough to
take part in any of the newer literary works. He was too careless in his turn of phrase
and spoke in an aimlessly fluttering way. They called Kakitsu ‘Hato Poppo’ (a
nickname meaning Cooing Dove, earned because of his soft tone of voice) and
Shikan was called ‘Paapaa’ (Flutterer) because of his poor phrasing. It was also said
that whilst Kakitsu’s speech was laden with potent energy that, even though he was
determined to be seen otherwise Shikan’s was just blabbering nonsense. It got so
bad in his later years that it made one’s ears stand up and so it was felt that it was
inappropriate for him as an actor with such a reputation to be selected take part in
any new productions.

In this way, as a not very commendable actor, he was by no means considered
comparable to them. Since it’s only the Introduction that you have read after having
chatted about this let’s talk a little more about the contempt with which he was
spoken, which was wrong.

The first time I saw the actor called Nakamura Shikan IV on stage was October Meiji
16 (1883) when I was twelve years old. Though I expect that I may have seen him on
previous occasions this first time is the one that sticks foremost in my memory. At
the time the Kabuki plays I saw were, in the first act, the scenes from ‘Imoseyama’,
called Yoshino Gawa, Michiyuki, and Goten, the middle act was ‘Yaguchi no
Watashi’, and the second act was a new production of ‘Ise Ondo’. In the first act,
‘Yoshino Gawa’, Danjūrō played Sadaka, Shikan played Daihanji, Sadanji played the
role of Koganosuke with long maegami forelocks, and Nakamura Fukusuke IV
played Hinadori. In ‘Michiyuki’ Danjūrō played the young girl role of Omiwa, Shikan
played Motome, and Suketakaya Takasuke IV played Princess Tachibana. In ‘Goten’
Danjūrō played Omiwa, Sadanji played Fukashichi, and Shikan played the Tōfu
merchant. The audience’s curiosity and excitement was unwavering.

The group that went along to watch the performance included me, my older sister,
my father, his friend Mr S and four other people. It was the end of October and there
was a cloudless sky. I thought that the act with both mansions on either side of the
Yoshinogawa River was colourful. The first unexpected surprise was Sadanji’s

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Koganosuke. Even more surprising was Shikan’s really splendid Daihanji. When
both Sadaka and Daihanji appeared on their respective hanamichi walkways through
the audience I wasn’t at all intent on watching Danjūrō, rather I was wholeheartedly
gazing at the temporary hanamichi, at Daihanji’s face – the appearance of which was
peerless and with which nothing could compare. An actor’s make-up; up until that
point I had regarded that of Danjūrō, Kikugorō, Sadanji, Suketakaya Takasuke IV,
Kataoka Gadō III, and Ichikawa Gonjūrō as standard, judging them to be either good
or bad. Then from the corner of the doma dirt floor box I looked up and saw that on
those occasions no one else’s make-up had looked like that and I decided that in my
childlike judgement I felt that the standard had been completely overturned and that
Danjūrō’s make-up was somewhat amateurish in comparison. An actor’s make-up; I
thought it should be how Nakamura Shikan’s appeared.

Even though it didn’t impress itself on my childish mind whether or not this was of
course at least skilful, I did have occasion to hear many people speak about it who
agreed that his actor’s make-up was really splendid. Of course I didn’t really know. It
was at the next New Year at the Nakamura Theatre during the middle act, ‘Akoya's
Koto Torture’ (Akoya no Kotozeme), when I saw his Iwanaga Saemon that it dawned
on me that as a Kabuki actor his make-up was peerless when compared to others.

From around about that time he continued at the Nakamuraza Theatre where, along
with his son Nakamura Fukusuke IV, Gonjūrō, Gadō, Ichikawa Sumizō V, and
Kumitarō as an acting troupe they continued to perform when their popularity was at
its peak. Anyway I vaguely remember that they only continued to perform at the
theatre in Motochi’s Saruwaka-machi which was too far away from Yamanote.
Somehow or other my father got to go regularly to see Danjūrō perform there though
regrettably I didn’t often then get the opportunity to watch what he was performing.
Nevertheless I was able to see him (Shikan) perform there in ‘Strange Tales of the
Crescent Moon’ (Chinsetsu Yumiharizuki, written by Bakin Kyokutei) as the magician
Mō’un Kokushi, in ‘Kumagai at the Fan Shop‘ (Ōgiya Kumagai) as Anewa no Heiji, in
‘Twins’ (Futa Omote) as Hōkaibō, in ‘Letter from Koshigoe’ (Koshigoe Jō) as Gotō, in
‘Twenty Four Filial Pieties‘ (Nijūshiko) as Yokokura, and in Taishū (The Amagasaki
Scene) as Mitsuhide. At the Chitoseza Theatre he performed in ‘Sandaiki’ as Sasaki,
‘Horikawa Yōchi’ and as Fujiyata both of which I saw. He was especially good at
dancing ‘Rokkasen’ which I saw at the Nakamuraza and Shintomiza Theatres. All of
these demanding roles became his great masterpieces for which he was recognized
and much admired.

I did also mention previously about his dancing which with his really splendid make
up was his forte. With his villain’s daibyaku large bushy wig (made to look like hair
uncut for one hundred days), yoten (wide sleeved garment with split hems worn by
samurai characters) as accessories to his costume in the danmari pantomime in the
dark scene as Suzoku the bandit at New Year when at the door to the tsujidō
wayside shrine they all pulled really big nirami glares when he outshone all the other
actors. His stare was extraordinarily sharp. His so called nirami glare was so
effective that he outdid even those of Danjūrō and Danzō. Also he was so cleverly
charismatic that when he appeared as a beautiful girl he looked really adorable. He
was triumphant and much adored when he danced. The artistic skill he exhibited was
of an old and very showy style. Though something from which he later deviated he

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performed in the same way to suit the occasions on which I saw him perform old
style Kabuki plays. His face and artistic skill were certainly unusual.

He was already older than other actors and in decline. His weakest point was that he
was unsuitable for the alternative Shin (new) Kabuki from which, though he was
dependant on the stage, he kept his distance. On the other hand, while his popularity
was declining, his son Fukusuke’s popularity was increasing. As I was employed at a
newspaper company I had the freedom and the reason to watch the performances at
any theatre. In the olden days and in keeping with his status he was a force of nature
though later on he wasn’t able to maintain his style of acting so not being able to
work in this way had an effect on his audience. In spite of this he did play a limited
number of roles. In Meiji 24 (1891) during the New Year performance run at the
Kabukiza Theatre alongside Fukusuke as Yukihime and Kikugorō as Kinoshita
Tōkichirō (the young Toyotomi Hideyoshi) in the play ‘The Golden Kinkakuji Pavilion
in Kyōtō‘ (Gion Sairei Shinkoki) he also performed the role of Matsunaga Daizen.
Even so, playing such a magnificent role on the Grand Stage, he was not as good as
he otherwise might have been.

In Meiji 26 (1893) in a performance of Hōkaibō at Gifu Prefecture’s Tajimi Town
during a chūnori aerial stunt he fell and broke his leg. Though he made a complete
recovery as a consequence he inherited a lame foot. During his last lonely years his
stage appearances became increasingly disappointing. He worked more and more in
plays away from the Grand Stage. However in Meiji 29 (1896) at the Kabukiza
Theatre though he was considered for the role of Ikkyū in one of Danjūrō’s
occasional productions of ‘Sukeroku’ it didn’t happen. The last time I saw him on a
Grand Theatre’s stage was at Kamita Misaki-chō’s Tōkyōza Theatre in March Meiji
30 (1897). He appeared on that stage in the opening of the second act,
‘Hidakagawa’. Alongside Fukusuke who played Princess Kiyo he played Manago no
Shōji, and his completely masterful grasp of the role of the boatman.

After that as he got older he increasingly declined. On the other hand it should be
said that his son, Fukusuke, became the tateoyama leading female role specialist at
the Kabukiza Theatre. Even so he travelled around with other actors and worked at
both Sumida Park’s Miyatoza Theatre and Akasaka’s Engiza Theatre.

I knew him in his old age when he lamented, ‘I think about those occasions in the
olden days… …it really is like a dream’.

In this way he lamented to some of his followers that those days really were gone. In
Meiji 32 (1899) he departed this world. He was seventy years old. On the second
anniversary of his death in Meiji 34 (1901) his son Fukusuke took the name
Nakamura Shikan V. I was there when he succeeded to the name Nakamura
Utaemon V.

Not unexpectedly if there’s one thing that stick’s in my memory of the time it’s that
Children’s Drama was in fashion.

From the last days of the Edo Period to the early part of the Meiji Era when its
popularity began to wane Children’s’ Drama was extremely fashionable. A little while
after that it was discontinued. Though I don’t know what the cause was this was
when, in Meiji 30 (1897), it underwent a major revival. For a number of reasons in
March that same year there were some Children’s’ Drama performances. Onoe
Ushinosuke II, Kataoka Hidetarō I, Ichikawa Gonzaburō II, Ichikawa Danko I, Bandō
Mitahachi III all achieved popularity performing in plays. To begin with the reason it
became fashionable in the short term was more to do with the promoters though it
seemed unlikely that conventional feeling would show popular favour. Anyway it so
happened that the revival of Children’s Drama found popular public acceptance. In
May that year Suketakaya Kodenji I and Nakamura Kichiemon I’s acting troupe was
launched at the Asakusaza Theatre.

At the time the entire programme of the plays that were performed consisted of
‘Tales of Sanemori’ (Sanemori Monogatari) from ‘Nunobiki Waterfall’ (Nunobiki no
Taki), ‘Before the Gate’ (Torii Mae) from ‘Yoshitsune and the Thousand Cherry
Trees’ (Senbon Zakura), the ‘Puppet Imitation Dance’ (Ningyō Buri) from ‘Yaoya
Oshichi’, the tenth act of the Amagasaki Scene (another puppet imitation scene)
from ‘Tales of the Regent Hideyoshi’ (Ehon Taikōki), and the Kyō-ningyō (Kyōto Doll)
play ‘Left Handed Jingorō’ (Hidari Jingorō).

The other thing I recall is that the productions were jōruri recitation with shamisen
accompaniment. The actors were Kodenji, Sawamura Sōnosuke I, Kichiemon, and
Ichikawa Ginzō II along with twenty other boy actors. Though it was unexpectedly
popular I managed to get an invitation. I made a point of expressing my gratitude
since at around that time a recession had hit the theatre industry. The world of the
theatre being prone to the problem meant a little business right away was, at the
very least, somehow sufficient. Suddenly there was an increase in the number of
people touting for business for the Children’s Drama at Asakusa.

This was bound to happen due to the outlook at the Asakusaza Theatre. The
following month this continued with a second experimental performance run which
was still a big hit. Usually Kabuki plays were performed alongside Shosei Shibai
student plays which meant that in the course of events the categories of
performances increased with the arrival of Children’s Drama. Kodenji and Kichiemon
were especially popular actors in the roles they played. The Asakusaza Theatre
continued with three to four successful performance runs. That year in November
‘The Treasury of Loyal Retainers’ (Chūshingura) and ‘Benten Kozō’ were produced.
At the time Kodenji played Yuranosuke, Kanpei and Benten Kozō, and Kichiemon
played Moronao, Heiemon and Tadanobu Rihei. Indeed, Children’s Drama was at
the peak of its popularity.

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As expected each of the children’s plays were similarly pretty to look at. An
additional novelty was the formation of a youth’s theatre company. The date was
November when at the Shintomiza Theatre there was also a noticeboard advertising
young male plays where the group which included Kataoka Kamezō III, Danjirō,
Bandō Yasosuke II, Bandō Mitahachi III, Ichikawa Sakimatsu II, Nakamura
Shikomaru, Nakamura Fukuzō, were all gathered for the opening event. The
performances were Sakaro from ‘Hiragana Seisuke’, ‘The Chrysanthemum Garden’
(Kikubatake) from ‘Kiichi Hōgen’, Hachijō from ‘Tametomo’ (probably The Genji:
Early Winter at Kachidoki, Kaeribana Genji no Kachidoki), and both ‘Breaking the
Seal’ (Fūingiri) and ‘Ninokuchi Village’ (Ninokuchimura) from ‘Umegawa and Chūbei’
(aka The Courier for Hades, Meido no Hikyaku). As a consequence there was a
trend towards Children’s Drama becoming beneficially fashionable. This
performance run achieved considerable returns.

In the middle of all this the role that became the most popular was Nakamura
Shikomaru’s Kiichi Hōgen. Lineage was not what, for the most part, made this role
popularly received. The troupe really was completely made up of children. This Kiichi
was played in a way that was similar to that of an older person playing the role.
Though this appearance seemed to be a little problematic I think the image and the
speech delivery was good. In reality this Kiichi was splendid. What’s more, for me
watching this drama, the story of Kiichi and Okuniwa from The Chrysanthemum
Garden (Kikubatake) was all very splendid. Still I think I was surprised at how
excellent some sixteen or seventeen young boy actors were. Near me was the
rakugoka storyteller Danshūrō Enshi II, and as always at his appearance I sighed in
admiration whispering “that person is good” finishing with “Mmmm” an unconscious
reflection of my mood. Today was the day that I thought that I hadn’t ever seen an
inferior Kiichi. As I immediately remember as he came on stage and into sight it
became apparent that Shikomaru was really very clever in the role and that there
was nothing else like it. Later on he worked in a troupe there. His master was
Nakamura Shikaku I and he worked alongside the others at the theatre. It gradually
became noticeable that as time went on he wasn’t appearing in superior acting roles
anymore. I was also happily unaware that he was suffering the complete misfortune
of having caught tuberculosis. On stage he was taking a serious hiatus and doing
more of other things. Then afterwards, four or five years later, at the Engiza Theatre
he played his last role as Kisuke in ‘The Ise Dances and Loves Dull Blade’ (Ise Ondo
Koi no Netaba) before his premature death.

As I recall I saw the second Children’s Drama in which Nakamura Matagorō I played
after he had started working. Matagorō was adopted by Nakamura Shikin. In Ōsaka
he played child actor roles and was referred to as a child prodigy. It was also said
that the roles that came up were offered by Ganjirō and others. He was
accomplished from the first occasion he mounted the stage when he played Onio in
Soga no Taimen and, in only his second role, as a woman touting herself (tome-
onna) in ‘The Scabbards Touching’ (Sayaate). Though I wasn’t paying much
attention he was exceptional. Additionally he took a job working at the back of the
theatre at Saruya Tea House from which he was excused often so that at every
performance he was able to get a take on and be in the front of house as every great
role was performed.

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Nakamura Matagorō I at the Hongoza Theatre 1913 in the opening scene of Kiwametsui Banzui Chōbei
which is set in the Murayamaza Theatre in Negimachi

These performances were a hit and after that he went as swift as an arrow to the
Shintomiza Theatre where by now Children’s Drama was continually performed.
Whilst at the same time the principal outlet (for Children’s Drama) the Asakusaza
Theatre tirelessly carried on the performances. Kodenji and Kichiemon were
increasingly popular and were doing extremely well. Gradually the group at the
Shintomiza Theatre increased in popularity and subsequently worked at both
Fukagawa’s Fukagawaza Theatre and Akasaka’s Engiza Theatre. The Asakusaza
Theatre group appeared at the Shintomiza Theatre as well. Also the Shintomiza
Theatre group appeared on stage at the Asakusaza Theatre.

In this way, as it kept going, the three year period from Meiji 30 (1897) to Meiji 32
(1899) became the Golden Age of Child Drama. Conversely in August Meiji 32
(1899) Suketakaya Kodenji*, a company boss (zagashira) of a children’s troupe, was
on his way by steam train to play at Hakone when he suddenly became ill. At an
Onsen (Mountain Spring Hotel) at Tou-no-Sawa he died, the cause of his illness a
cerebral haemorrhage. He was sixteen years old. Before I’d even finished grieving
over Shikomaru’s premature death I was also grieving over Kodenji’s death. His style
of acting was out of proportion to his age. How he would have developed later on in
life as an adult could only be guessed at. Anyway, even at his youthful age he was
certainly an actor of royal pedigree. He had been reading and intending to study
Chinese Classics and was clever in the way he was able to communicate in English.
His younger brother Sōnosuke, who was with him when he was on his deathbed,
went on to live a much longer life becoming the managing actor at the Teikoku
Gekijō (Imperial Theatre) but then, in spite of not being over forty years old,
succumbed to a sudden illness and was gone. As siblings they surely had both been
ill-fated.

*Translator’s note: A rising star in Tōkyō of the late 19th century Suketakaya Kodenji I
did not live to see the turn of the new millennium or his potential fulfilled. Born
2nd May 1884 Suketakaya Kodenji I the son of Sawamura Tosshi VII, having debuted
at the age of four in 1887 on the occasion of the opening of Tōkyō’s Azumaza
Theatre he went on to become zagashira, or leader, of children’s troupe at the
theatre in 1896 when it was renamed the Miyatoza. In 1894 at the age of ten he
debuted one of his disciples, the then six year old Sawamura Daisuke. He appeared
on stage alongside Nakamura Kichiemon I in January 1899 and after he had

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performed to great acclaim at the Shintomiza he had been expected to become a
great Kabuki actor. However in August 1899 he fell ill and passed away on the
24th of that month aged 16 and was interred in Saikoji Temple in Chitose just south
of Ryōgoku, Tōkyō alongside generations of the Sawamura line of Kabuki actors.

From left to right: Sawamura Chōnosuke as the Child Isshi Ishidōmaru and Sawamura Sōnosuke I as the Monk Karukaya
Dōshin
Memorial print to the memory of Suketakaya Kodenji I who passed away August 24th Meiji 32 (1899) aged 16
From the performance of Karukaya Dōshin Tsukushi no Iezuto at the Shintomiza dated 16th Sept Meiji 32 (1899)

Though I have said more about Kodenji he wasn’t alone in carrying Children’s
Drama. Kichiemon and Sōnosuke did also. The other was Matagorō, who raised the
stakes intellectually. However when he later died his mental state, on which he had
relied for the so called Children’s Drama, had declined. After three years the Golden
Age ended after which it went into a real decline. Shortly after that the audiences
became a little tired of it. Afterwards the managers of other businesses at the time
were suddenly making a loss and in the circumstances it was a hard blow for them.
In spite of this Kichiemon and Matagorō were both chosen to continue Children’s
Drama performances where there were occasionally large attendances and though
this was more than OK generally speaking the circumstances in which it had
flourished did not occur again.

In May of Meiji 34 (1901) Ōsaka’s so called young actors troupe appeared at the
Asakusaza Theatre. Though this didn’t last long appearing there were Onoe
Rakunosuke, Arashi Kichimatsurō, Jitsukawa Jitsutarō who were joined by ten of
Tōkyō’s young actors. ‘Yoshikado visiting the old temple at Soma’ (Sōma no
Yoshikado) and ‘Tsubosaka’ were both staged. Played by Rakunosuke the role of
the mysterious Sawaichi was popular.

Nevertheless the subsequent reputation of Children’s Drama was made as a result
of Kichiemon and Matagorō. Though Kichiemon was more popular Matagorō was the
superior actor. However the existence of that generation of child actors was brief.
How honourable were they, as those so called child prodigies? Their superior art
succeeded so admirably that their improved reputation meant they were more readily
acceptable to audiences. Though a decision had not yet been reached, once their

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kimono shoulder tuck (kataage - signifying the wearer is a minor) had been removed,
they were already young actors. I think that though they began as child actors they
continued to participate for five or six more years. As they moved into adolescence,
though Children’s Drama had been intensely fashionable it was on the decline, they
all alternatively moved into adult drama. By Meiji 36 (1903) what Children’s Drama
that had remained in Tōkyō had been lost. Then later Saruya Tea House, an admirer
of the Shintomiza Theatre’s Hanagata (star actor), backed Matagorō to be the
company boss (zagashira). Kataoka Ichizō III and Nakamura Shikaku I, both
exceptional people, performed for a while with the troupe. Meanwhile Kichiemon was
at the Ichimuraza Theatre with Onoe Kikugorō VI‘s troupe. Children’s Drama had a
short history and this was the end and it was time to say farewell.

Stylistically was the so called Children’s Drama excellent or inferior? In those days
variation was controversial. Ichikawa Danjūrō IX and Onoe Kikugorō V were the
people with objections. Naturally child actors still played childish roles though
gradually as they reached adulthood they worked as mature actors. They were
people in the pursuit of truth. They worked in Kumagai and acted as Tokijirō though
some, in their opinion, were concerned. They performed to the best of their ability
the first time this was done at the Kabukiza Theatre but Onoe Kikugorō V would not
permit his own son Onoe Ushinosuke II to act in Children’s Drama.

In Meiji 31 (1898) there was one thing in the theatre world which did become a
problem for Ichikawa Danjūrō IX.

In Ōsaka’s Umeda District the new Grand theatre had been completed. Usually
called the Umeda Theatre its reputation, as such, was founded on Ōsaka Kabuki. At
last the theatre’s opening event was set for February 12 th and, after discussions, the
Danjūrō clan was invited to open on stage. Danjūrō’s pupils were Ichikawa Yaozō
VII, Ichikawa Metora II, Ichikawa Somegorō IV along with the onnagata Nakamura
Tomijūrō III who all at the time travelled from Tōkyō to Ōsaka. Of course this
signature debut was to be performed alongside Ōsaka actors including Nakamura
Fukusuke IV, Kataoka Gatō III, Arashi Ganshō, and Onoe Taminosuke I. For the first
performance run Danjūrō offered to perform for the first act ‘The Career of Kagekiyo’
(Shūse Kagekiyo), for the middle act ‘Kagami Jishi‘ and ‘Trousers for Two’ (the
dance comedy Ninin Bakama aka Two in one Hakama), and for the second act
‘Kochiyama‘. Danjūrō was to play the roles of Kagekiyo, Koshō Yayoi, Takasago no
Jōhyōe, and the four roles of Kōchiyama Sōshun. The Tōkyō contingent were to play
other generally strong roles and were to be in charge of them. Meanwhile the Ōsaka
contingent would be performing and appearing on stage in ‘Terutora Sets the Table’
(Terutora Haizen) and ‘Courtesan in a Palanquin’ (Modori Kago).

The second performance run opened on March 20th. The first act was ‘The Treasury
of Loyal Retainers’ (Chūshingura), the middle act ‘Ōmori Hikoshichi‘, and the second
act ‘Banzuiin Chōbei‘. Danjūrō played the roles of Yuranosuke, Hikoshichi and
Chōbei. At that time the Ōsaka contingent became especially outspoken about the
theatre programme and as Chūshingura’s strong roles were appropriate to Danjūrō’s
status he took charge of the proceedings.

The performance was, however, expected to be a disaster and was not expected to
make any substantial returns. Initially, they somehow or other managed to
persevere. Furthermore, its unprofitability was as a result of it being awfully
susceptible to business conditions. There are two other causes which were reported.
First and foremost was the issue of entrance fees, which for that generation were
extraordinarily expensive. A sajiki gallery room cost 13 yen 80 sen, and a hiradoma
central floor box with two people squeezed in cost 4 yen 50 sen. Danjūrō said ‘give it
a shot, give it a shot’ without giving much consideration to the scarily expensive cost.
Consequently everyone was doubtful. Secondly was the arrangement of the types of
plays that I have outlined. The Tōkyō contingent of actors were mostly in charge.
The Ōsaka contingent of actors only had limited input. As a result there were two
conflicting ways of doing things and in the circumstances there was too much left
unsaid. As a consequence the local group, whose feelings had in one way or another
been hurt, spontaneously unleashed malicious gossip that they were the more
popular and influential.

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Actually the performers view was that it was expensive to have invited and to have to
pay for Danjūrō’s troupe and that this intention had been a gamble on a single
person. The Tōkyō contingent was holding enough flowers (Japanese idiom – had
enough stars in their ranks) which as a matter of course they proposed to be using
as their selling point. The Ōsaka contingent were feeling emotional because of the
truth of this. ‘With humility of spirit and in keeping with this honour’, the famous actor
said, ‘the arrangements made should also be ideal’. For the local group to show
favour should be the naturally done thing and those from within the local group
began to harbour serious animosity towards the actors within the Tōkyō contingent.
Also, when the Kabuki play ‘The Treasury of Loyal Retainers’ (Chūshingura) was
performed he (Danjūrō) was never on stage and people were being completely
wicked clearly expressing themselves in a way that was in contrast to what was
honourable which would only result in a bad ending and that they were afraid that in
the circumstances it was not unreasonable to expect that the returns wouldn’t be
very good. However they were people who had to take off their rose tinted
spectacles to watch. As was expected whatever Danjūrō, Japan’s best, did struck
everyone with admiration. Every mouth there praised his excellent and successful
ability. As demanded, Danjūrō’s artistic skill was victorious and they lost out with the
performance. Though there may have been poor returns, as a result of his prestige
the artist’s pride wasn’t hurt. I don’t know whether, therefore, Ōsaka was unaffected.
Tōkyō were more intellectually outspoken about their problematic situation. Only the
Ōsaka contingent with its narrow-minded partiality towards the actors weren’t only
scornful but laughing too much.

In this situation there was just one problem with the Ōsaka nori-komi, the celebratory
parade of Kabuki actors on boats, which Danjūrō performed twice. In total he
received 50,000 yen, forty times his salary. Nowadays when talking of 50,000 yen it’s
certainly a great deal of money which in today’s equivalent is about five or six times
as much I think. I understand it would probably be not less than 200,000 yen, maybe
even more than 300,000 yen. Anyway, in those days 50,000 yen, forty times his
salary, was unprecedented and broke all records for the theatre world and everyone,
including me, was very surprised and wondered whether it was worth it or if it could
be justified for the theatre world to pay Danjūrō such a salary. This question about
the 50,000 yen was more heavily debated by those in Ōsaka. Those in Tōkyō
engaged in various discussions about it. Many newspapers took up their brushes
and in chorus wrote about it saying that Danjūrō was growing increasingly arrogant
and was indulging in outrageous usury there. Still, it wasn’t stipulated why such a
cost to the arts had been required. With concerns they consented to the payment of
50,000 yen but said that if it was 100,000 yen it would be more of a hindrance.
However there were extremely few who were for the latter saying that it was
expensive and blaming Danjūrō for being considerably arrogant and greedy.

At the time I was involved in Mr. Enomoto Torahiko’s wonderful discussions. Ōchi
koji said it was reasonably difficult to separate truth from fiction but that it was that
the patronage on offer to Danjūrō was also plausible especially with his going to, and
the influence he wielded in, Ōsaka. Naturally it couldn’t possibly be known what
Danjūrō’s defence might be as only he would know what precisely went on inside the
theatre. That was an essential point he made during the discussion.

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‘Why society would like to kick up such a fuss is sadly incomprehensible. For
example, assuming Danjūrō got 50,000 yen seeing that it was the first time Ichikawa
Danjūrō had travelled to and come on board in Ōsaka, it was customary in the field
of drama everywhere to give gifts etc. and that though this was naturally quite a lot
this was small change. It wasn’t just about when he travelled to Ōsaka as much as it
was about when he returned to Tōkyō as, naturally, a considerable number of
suitable gifts must be bought. It’s partly for that reason that allowances must be
made I think. He himself would be left holding responsibility for as much as or more
than half the mount and even so it would not be enough for him to live up to the
responsibilities of his rank. I wonder if it can’t be expected that 50,000 yen isn’t in the
least expensive. If it’s true that it’s wrong then Danjūrō would be wrong and would
lose out and the customs of the way of drama are wrong. To put it quite simply it
would result in the way of drama losing out. Some part of the audience is still wrong.
Actors are travelling back and forth and whenever visiting there it is befitting and
honourable to bestow gifts. It was said that amongst other things he faced unknown
objections and a reputation for being scrimpy. I dare say that the tourist associations
were influential and to save face I guess they weren’t consulted. Customs are like
this except that, since Danjūrō is constrained by his intellect, he wasn’t involved.
Other actors have expensive salaries since if they do not make a living wage
business is lost. Therefore the amount of investment the show manger needs is
enormous or opportunity is lost. Naturally at another time if Ōsaka’s plays would be
taking on similarly expensive entrance fees they would end up losing out. To say that
in the end there would be audience trouble is absurd. Anyway in the way of drama
members of the audience are elements of society with the consequence that there
are bound to be some with a variety of bad manners who make themselves
prominent. It can’t be helped and there is no remedy. This time around it’s Danjūrō’s
problem that it is, in total, something of a large amount of money on which a
settlement has been made about which he didn’t make a fuss. There were lots of
such ideas as well as the fact that it’s not regarded as a particularly conspicuous
amount. It was only Danjūrō in particular that was criticised for being unreasonable’

These days this is more often sponsored and the various reasons for not doing so
are dying out because of the adverse effect it might have. It’s not only Danjūrō that
earned between 200,000 to 300,000 yen. It’s a big problem not having such large
amounts which is needed in order to be able to make it attractive.

Translator’s note: Interview with Ichikawa Danjūrō IX 1898-1899 which includes a
comment by Danjūrō on the 50,000 yen issue

"If I may broach a delicate question, will you tell me if the paragraphs circulated in the
Japanese Press are correct? They state that your season of four weeks last April in Osaka
brought you in a sum of 50,000 yen (nearly ₤5000), and that out of this amount you
gave away in presents something like 20,000 yen (₤2000)."

The old man smiled, less grimly. "It is quite true," he said. "But the presents are
imposed by etiquette, and such customs are more or less reciprocal. The total receipts
of the theatre, as certified by the Government auditor, after the tax had been deducted,
amounted to 130,000 yen (₤13,000)."

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After returning from Ōsaka Danjūrō worked at the Kabukiza Theatre. In his first
performance run the first act was ‘Kagamiyama‘. Danjūrō played Iwafuji, Shūchō and
Onoe Kikugorō played Ohatsu. As such it was a special attraction and drew full
houses which were OK. The middle act was Danjūrō’s ‘Nakamitsu’, and the second
act was Kikugorō’s ‘Omatsuri Sashichi’.

The 50,000 yen problem was an exception. In Meiji 34 (1901) at the Kabukiza
Theatre ‘Tale of the Regent Hideyoshi’ (Taikōki) the Burning of Incense at Daitokuji
scene (Daitokuji Shōkō ba) was performed. Danjūrō played Hideyoshi, and Kikugorō
played Shibata Katsuie. Every day there was a full house. In the Burning Incense
Scene (Shōkō ba) Katsuie is not very remorseful and in his obstinacy he carries and
keeps pulling downward on a Chūkei Ceremonial Folding Fan. Such a thing like a
Chūkei wasn’t generally kept to hand. Kikugorō took the opportunity to specially
order it from Kyōto. The cost for one was 3 yen 50 sen. It took the passing of twenty
five days for the cost to increase to 87 yen 50 sen. At today’s values that would be
the equivalent of between 400 and 500 yen to have to fork out. Mostly it was stage
props, like a Chūkei, that were bemoaned. I think it lost its special appeal because of
the loss in costs associated with its exorbitant expense. Of course he himself didn’t
order his favourite stage props. A little bad mood was felt when the same sort of
thing didn’t happen for another similar play when Nakamura Nakazō III forgot to
place an extravagant written wholesale order. The thing that Katsuie officially carried
was very popular. Small things make all the difference. I think it was rumoured that
actors’ opulence as well as that associated with the inside of their dressing rooms,
and the cheaper shows, were gradually disappearing.

Incidentally, on the occasion when the Daitokuji Temple scene was played the
entrance fee was for a sajiki gallery room 8 yen 30 sen which, when furnished with
matting was another 50 sen. One takadoma room on the far side of the hanamichi
runway through the audience was 7 yen 30 sen, and the cost of matting the same as
before. Hiradoma seating immediately in front of the stage was 2 yen 90 sen per
room. Additional miscellaneous expenses for provisions for one person was 80 sen.
For one person in the third floor gallery it cost 38 sen.

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Part 33 Categories of Play at the Time

Dr. Tsubōchi’s New Historical Drama – Drama Journal’s Rejection – Shinsaku’s New
Production of Akugenta – An Interval of Poor Turnout – Shinsaku’s New Production
of Uesugi Kenshin

The Engeki Kairyō Kai Theatre Reform Movement (see Part 11 Drama Improvement
and Adaptation) were accelerating the development of other plays. As I mentioned
before a man of letters was starting to write novice plays and making them known to
others. One of the additional reasons for this was that one of his plays was being
performed. It was the independent scholar (Koji) Yoda Gakkai‘s ‘Mongaku’s
Subscription List’ (Mongaku Kanjinchō, see Part 13) along with another two or three
which had been completed. Even so they were appended with various revisions as a
consequence of the author’s dissatisfaction with the originals. Additionally Miyazaki
Sanmai‘s amateur self-published work ‘Izumi no Saburō’ (See Part 20: Korean
Official Objection) in three acts was performed at the Nakamuraza Theatre in
October Meiji 24 (1891). As the performances gradually came to an end the Engeki
Kairyō Kai Theatre Reform Movement said they should be re-launched. The Engei
Kyōfū Kai Society for the Betterment of Entertainment was to organise this but after
two days nothing was done.

Also the Engei Kyōfū Kai Society for the Betterment of Entertainment, which had
once been responsible for keeping alight the flames of reform had, predictably, not
lived up to expectations and disappeared. Plays published by those outside the
sphere of theatre reform no longer materialised. A special volume of Mr. Yamada
Bimyō’s “The Wind Blown Brocade Banner of Murakami Yoshiteru” (Murakami
Yoshiteru Nishiki no Hata Kaze) was published though this proved problematic and
wasn’t very successful. Mr. Sudō Nansui’s “Edo’s Pride: A Shining Example of a
Man” (Edo Jiman Otoko Ippiki) was also published. In retrospect these were not from
people with connections to the theatre. It has been said that as such, and for this
reason, plays written by people who were theatre outsiders naturally disappeared.
During this period, with great effort and diligence, progress in drama reform was
continued by Dr. Tsubōchi Shōyō who headed up the “Waseda Bungaku” literature
magazine. He persisted in trying to always be instructively and constructively critical,
something which he applied to two of his published historical dramas, ‘Falling
Paulownia Leaf’ (Kiri Hitoha) and ‘The Sinking Moon over the Lonely Castle where
the Cuckoo Cries’ (Hototogisu Kojō no Rakugetsu). As a consequence of which both
works were received by the public very cautiously though it was rumoured that there
was support for their having been played on stage by those in the theatre world
where they were accepted with hesitation.

I think that in the days when this survey was being done authors were attached to
particular theatres. After Kawatake Mokuami passed away in January Meiji 26 (1893)
Kawatake Shinshichi III became the chief playwright at the Ichimuraza Theatre,
moving there from the nearby Kabukiza Theatre. Takeshiba Kisui was the chief
playwright at the Meijiza Theatre and wrote solely on behalf of Sadanji’s acting
troupe. Fukuchi Ōchi Koji was at the Kabukiza Theatre and wrote exclusively for
Danjūrō. I think that Shinshichi and Kinsui were both in competition. Previously
involved with the Kabukiza Theatre Ōchi Koji was certainly considered an outsider
even though he was considered as an author attached to a particular theatre. Most

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of the work by outsiders was literary and not therefore performed as spoken works.
When speaking of new work it was usually limited to the writing by these three
characters.

Certainly outsiders with a lot of play writing spirit were unusual and uncommon
people who gradually disappeared. Actually, I was also one of those people. One
outsider who wrote whose example I followed during that period was Dr. Tsubōchi
who operated on the principal of keeping his distance. Fresh and young, we were
after all the companions whose writing was our business. Today there are, if
possible, more opportunities to publish in journals. In those days similar journals of
the category which published literature articles were very few in number and which
gradually disappeared. I cannot help but say that this was especially so of the type in
which I generally read about drama, most of which I disliked. I was thinking about
this when I produced a one act play, a historical drama, to show to the editor of
“Bungei Kurabu” (Literature Club). Until then how often had the editor there run my
essays on novels as articles regardless? No matter that I had tried very hard, he
said, he was embarrassed at the script which had replaced the previous type of
writing about novels. I suppose that I was hoping that if I persisted the article might
be run and that if this was performed at the theatre then he would be happy to be in
possession of such a thing. In spite of that, not caring much about needing approval,
I continued to write the story. Ten years later, after a lot of additional revision, it
opened on the stage of the Meijiza Theatre. It was ‘Tales of the Black Ships’
(Kurofune Banashi). I believe that in that far off past when I wrote it in its entirety it
was of little value and was withdrawn. At the time I was proud of it as it was similar to
other new works. In reality I confess I put that one act play under a pile of books at
the bottom of my bookcase where it remained for the next thirteen to fourteen years
until quite by chance I got a break and became famous.

Because of that from then on I carried on. I wouldn’t leave it at one play as I wasn’t
yet past the peak of my abilities. As a consequence I wrote and though the theatres
took notice, the journals I called gave no response. I really wasn’t able to compete
and in tune with this was naturally hesitant when I first began writing articles. I also
wrote more plays, three or four types of plays that were in a similar category to
‘Tales of the Black Ships’ (Kurofune Banashi). But in vain, those types of plays got
pushed into my bookcase and I was unable to make much progress. I was also
getting a little tired. Every week I saw myself as a fool plucking up courage. Mr.
Matsui Shōyō’s historical drama ‘Wicked Genta’ (Akugenta Yoshihira) was
performed at the Meijiza Theatre in October Meiji 32 (1899) when the middle act of
the performance was Ōba Kagechika and the Battle of Taikenmon Gate (Taiken Mon
no Ōba). Two of the scenes depicted Yoshihira chasing Shigemori away from the
Capital, and Yoshihira being captured alive at Ishiyama Dera Temple outside the
Capital*. The principle roles were Ichikawa Sadanji I’s Akugenta Yoshihira, Ichikawa
Gonjūrō I’s Taira no Shigemori, and Ichikawa Yonezō 4.5’s Princess Hanasaki Hime,
Shigemori’s younger sister. I knew that, as much as possible, the work went ahead
without any sort of edits to this outsider’s literary work and, when it was staged as a
Kabuki play, I felt light headed. It was since the Meiji Era that I believe that things
started to happen. Mr. Shōyō was later called Mr. Shōō.

*Translator’s note: for the synopsis of very similar plays from the Noh Theatre see
http://www.meijigakuin.ac.jp/~pmjs/biblio/genpei-noh.html#KYS

It was during that era that this sort of thing was more available though from the
beginning, it is said, there was a lack of the work of outsider’s on stage. Perhaps it
was more or less unreasonable to entrust this sort of thing to the theatre world’s
contingent. It was also befitting that from the beginning Mr. Matsui was able to make
compromises when he was writing. Ichikawa Sadanji I, in getting into the role of
Akugenta Yoshihira, had a similarly heroic reputation and as usual he was reputed to
be the best. I remember that I had already decided to work on writing about that
performance for that month’s ”Bungei Kurabu” (Literature Club Magazine) in which
the article ran. This article was welcomed. Afterwards, in October Meiji 34 (1901),
the Meijiza theatre again ran one of Mr. Matsui’s historical dramas. This time it was
’Genzanmi’*. This time it was the first on stage structured as an epic in five acts.
Sadanji I played three roles, Genzanmi Yorimasa, Hasabe Nobutsura and Dewa no
Hōgan Mitsunaga. What’s more Nobutsura’s big tachimawari stylised fight scene
was extremely popular. At the time Ichikawa Sadanji II, who was the still the young
Ichikawa Enshō II, played the role of Takakura no Miya. Afterwards Mr. Matsui wrote
‘Gotō Matabei’ on behalf of the Meijiza Theatre. Around the time of the Russo-
Japanese War he wrote ‘The Surrender of an Enemy Country’ (Tekkoku Kōfuku).

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Anyway these things, the various works from that era, came about as consequence
of taking into consideration the various compromises made by the authors.
Nonetheless it was said that as a consequence the creations of outsiders were in
this way able to be continuously performed. Since the Meiji there haven’t been many
similar instances. Regarding this we could only cautiously and watchfully keep an
eye out for any such occasions. The source for these so called plays and
playwrights, which certainly weren’t amateur, emerged originally from our country’s
Shibai Dō, Way of Drama. In the dressing room the author eats rice (pun, or sharé:
to make a living), the kurogo (stage assistant dressed in black) is covered (with
cloth), hyōshigi (wooden clappers) are struck, practice is undertaken, extracts are
written down. At the time it wasn’t possible for me to write plays, what I call ‘what I
did on stage’, unless I made a decision to undertake lots of study. I brought into this
process the idea that the creations of outsiders were regarded using the principle
that they were being kept at a distance. Whether or not this was a consequence of
sakoku teki national isolationist ideology I couldn’t say. It was said that it was
believed and strongly felt that amateurs were unable to write plays that were
satisfactory for the stage. In other words there was more of an inclination to “dislike
without having tried it out”. The solution to that bewildering infatuation was that the
proof of the pudding is in the eating. First and foremost amongst other things, and to
the contrary, the creations of amateurs showed rather good results when they were
performed on stage. With his skill Mr. Matsui took advantage of the opportunity. And
like that more plays were written by amateurs who remained undaunted by any
hazards they might face as a result of the example that had been shown. One way or
another his many years as an outsider ended with a country play “Room of No Entry”
(Irazu no Ma – traditionally a room for committing seppuku) which opened the book
on and heralded the beginning of the peak period of Mr. Matsui’s compelling skill.
Continuing to open that same book was Mr. Yamazaki Shikō whose play ’Uesugi
Kenshin’ opened at the Masagoza Theatre, and at the Meijiza Theatre his plays
’Kabuki Monogatari’, ‘The Soga Transgression’ (Hakai Soga) were both performed.

Masagoza Theatre, Nakazu Dōri, Tōkyō

With the momentum provided by opening the book on “Irazu no Ma” sooner or later
things gained momentum. Whether or not both of these men had ability I am perhaps
unable to say. With much endeavour in practice and study both men soon
succeeded. They were around for a long time and were spoken well of.

Translator’s note: for a more in depth look at Matsui Shōyō’s views on Japanese and
Western Theatre see his September 1907 article ‘To Adopt Western Methods on
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Japan’s Stage’ pages 250-251 (pdf pages 120-121) of the old Canadian periodical
‘The Theatre Magazine’
http://scans.library.utoronto.ca/pdf/3/24/theatremagazine07newyuoft/theatremagazin
e07newyuoft.pdf

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Part 34 Recollections of the First Performance of My Own Work

The Second Collaboration of Three people – The Company’s Drama Apprentice
Artisans on Holiday – The Attitude of the Resident Theatre Author – It’s the Shikiri
Scene Professionally Written – The Failure of the First Campaign

The reader might be interested in a little thing that happened. After Mr. Matsui Shōyō
and Mr. Yamazaki Shikō I’m hoping to cover next a little more of my own narrative.

I’ll begin by writing about when I got a rush of blood to my head about (my work)
being on stage. It was Spring of Meiji 35 (1902) and it was the Kabukiza Theatre’s
New Year performance run.

In those days the Managing Director of the Kabukiza Theatre was Mr. Inoue
Takejirō. Every year he worked with Onoe Kikugorō V on the Spring performance
run. There was some sort of serious illness going around so it was necessary that
only younger people were working on the opening event. Something certainly
needed to be done about the new production though as it was the Oshōgatsu New
Year Festival I had joined my companions on the Yabuiri Holiday given to
apprentices on the 16th of January and July. It was mentioned that with things
moving in that direction it was natural to be concerned. Three people, the venerable
old gentleman Mr. Jōno Saigiku, Mr. Oka Onitarō, and I suddenly had to improvise
and took responsibility for the situation. In the circumstances those with enough
experience of many years of traditional drama would be collaborating. It was
truthfully said that as a consequence of this each of the people taking over the
responsibility were professional writers. It seemed as though there wasn’t much
confidence. Anyway those from that era had already decided that amateur writers
shouldn’t be playwrights. For relatively new performances Mr. Inoue had his
preferred choices. Every one of those professional writers was each given pieces. In
the circumstances it seemed evident that there were increased feelings of anxiety.
All the same we three people shared with each other what we were writing.

Jōno Saigiku
http://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/条野採菊

Status is different today than it was then, when in that era there was the New Year
O-Bon Festival’s Yabuiri Holiday. That tradition was, and continued to be, universal.
No matter what, even with the Yabuiri Holiday, when the so called new Kabuki plays
had been written it was absolutely necessary to put on the New Year and O-Bon
Kabuki plays out of consideration for the audiences. During the Yabuiri Holiday the

193
youngsters came along together with their mums and older sisters. The work was
surprisingly difficult. In those days when we noticed the opportunity for outsiders’
scripts to be at the theatre “Room of No Entry” (Irazu no Ma – traditionally a room for
committing seppuku) was submitted while all this was going on, opening the book on
and beginning a hard working tradition. It didn’t matter by what means. Without such
opportunities would examples of writing like this be let loose? It was said that in
Shibai Dō, the Way of Drama, people were convinced that drama produced by
amateurs was the most valuable and profitable thing. It was said and acknowledged
by colleagues before the Yabuiri Holiday that this was understood. Then when it
happened the subject clearly became a difficult one. Then at the start of the New
Year it seemed natural, people said, that The Kite should be considered. A few years
before The Kite was performed by the Kikugorō Guild in a jōruri recitation with
shamisen accompaniment of ‘The Kite shaped like a Samurai Footman’ (Yakko Dako
sato no Harukaze). Something that was, unsurprisingly, obscure. It wasn’t called the
Kite drama. The venerable old man Jōno Saigiku submitted what he called Kakinoki
Kinsuke.

The story tells that mounted on a large kite Kakinoki Kinsuke managed to ascend to
the keep of Nagoya Castle where he tore down the golden fish scaled Shachi
(Translator’s note: a mythical carp with the head of a lion and the body of a fish and
auspicious protectors of well-being). He was a prolific burglar who stalked Bishū
Domain (aka Owari Domain) during the Kyōhō Period. The evidence for this came
from various records from different places. However the question remained as to
whether it was true or false that the fish scales had been stolen from the castle keep
which begged the question as to the reason why someone would tear off the golden
fish scales? A Mr. Tanaka Sōryū from the Yamato Shimbunsha newspaper company
spent a lot of time in Nagoya. We learned from him that it was really Bishū Domain’s
Chief Retainer Naruse Hayato no Shō Masanari who wrote the story called ‘Losing
the Golden Fish Scales’ (Kinrin Funshitsu Ki)*. He also gave us some additional
assistance. The story was without hesitation dramatized into four acts. However the
real story about the thief wasn’t that interesting so it had to be completely changed
from what had really happened. It was said that Kinsuke was a faithful servant and
that a barrel maker called Gonji was the villain who instigated things. Gonji, who was
successful at making kites, got the Shachi mythical carp’s fish scales. Gonji had
embezzled them but wouldn’t share them with Kinsuke who, getting angry, murdered
Gonji. It was said in the story that he was apprehended. So we three people shared
the task of writing this. Unfortunately the venerable old man Mr. Saigiku became ill. It
was decided that Mr. Oka would take the play’s first and third acts and I would take
the second and fourth acts. Anyway it was urgent that the writing of the whole story
should be completed. That was toward the end of the previous year. I wasn’t present
to witness the reading of the scenes. The script was handed over later, at the end of
a one week deadline. Eventually it was agreed and a decision was made for a
performance.

*Translator’s note: Probably related to and an earlier version of “The Gold
Shachihoko Shining in the Morning Sun" (Asahi ni Kagayaku Kin no Shachihoko)

At that time roles in the Kabuki plays that were being performed were taken by, in
the first act, Nakamura Shikan V in ’Asahina’ (possibly Kotobuki Soga no Taimen), in
the middle act Onoe Eizaburō V in ’Yaegaki Hime’ (probably Kitsunebi) and in the

194
second act as Kakinoki Kinsuke. The nadai chief actor consulted with Mr. Oka before
settling on the title ‘The Turbulent Tale of the Golden Shachi’ (Kogane no Shachi
Uwasa no Takanami). The cast was Ichimura Kakitsu VI as Kinsuke and Ichikawa
Yaozō VII as Gonji. The other roles were assigned to Nakamura Shikan V, Onoe
Matsusuke IV, Komazō*, Ichikawa Metora II, and Kataoka Ichizō IV.

* Translator’s note: This performance took place in the Spring of 1902. The name of
Ichikawa Komazō VII was taken in May 1903 by the later Matsumoto Koshirō VII so
the reference is to an actor called Komazō of an unknown generational number

In previous earthquakes all my diaries had been completely destroyed by fire. They
were a reliable source of things that I couldn’t remember. I can usually remember
everything from around Meiji 17 (1884) or 18 (1885). At the Kabukiza Theatre a little
while before closing we got a notification. Mr. Oka and I had been sitting together in
the same theatre box when, that afternoon at about 4pm, we were preparing to
leave. On the second floor they were in the middle of a practice session. The boxes
were crowded and congested with jostling people. Shortly a certain person by the
name of Takeshiba who was working at the theatre (Translator’s note: probably
referring to Kawatake Shinshichi III 1841 -1901 aka Takeshiba Kinsaku I) came
down from the second floor. It was that person who passed away in the final years of
the Meiji Era. It was rumoured that in his dressing room he was ill tempered, a matter
about which we were a little aware. I had often met him face to face at the
independent scholar Fukuchi Ōchi’s house. Meeting in the street by chance as we
were coming and going we stood around going over the narrative in a friendly
manner. Besides, that day his behaviour was ordinary and didn’t seem at all unusual.
As he was leaving to go somewhere else he spoke the opening section of the Kōjō
ceremonial speech. Bit by bit, speaking in the gaps, we were able to perform our
outsider’s script. It seemed then though as though their side were beginning to clothe
themselves in and demonstrate an intensely heartfelt animosity. We witnessed their
distinct manner and tone of voice. Whilst on one side there was extraordinary
politeness the other side was still being extraordinarily sarcastic, mimicking our way
of speaking. Before this we had been comparing the script. In about four or five
places that we had been OK with we were subjected to questioning as to whether
when we had redrafted them we had lost the plot. In the circumstances he
expressed his feelings dramatically while we were left guessing and pretending not
to notice, and responded that we were fine with it. In doing this in such
circumstances he said that he came first and had the final say. What we were to
follow up on with the script’s third act had been decided he said.

Mr. Oka would be in charge of the third act. This section covered the part where
Kinsuke gets his kite and steals the fish scales off the Shachi mythical carp. The real
portrait was incomplete as, he said, the writing wasn’t very interesting. It was in kind
of a similar style to a jōruri mono category of recitation with shamisen
accompaniment. Tokiwazu narrative music was used to articulate the first act.
However, in the circumstances tokiwazu wasn’t to be used for the performance run
this time and instead a poetically lyrical nagauta (long song) which had been written
out was passed around. He felt compelled and said, with his usual cynicism, by all
means sing nagauta but it needs to be rewritten entirely. He expressed his thoughts
and said that you guys are making more of the different characteristic writing styles
for Tokiwazu and Nagauta which we gave consideration to. Furthermore, he said,

195
this is needed urgently so please rewrite it at once. We differed over Tokiwazu and
Nagauta. However, he said, that one section needs something of a revision and he
expected the amendment to be completed which, he said, needed to be rewritten
altogether and that this needed to be written immediately during this interval. After
having handed all these challenges to us it was after all this his intention to put on
the pressure, something which we understood. Our response in regards to this was
not to back down. To get this done other people, who had been sent for, arrived. Our
script from before he shoved in front of us. Anyway, he said, I’m only a little pleased
with this, and left. There were other additional various situations, the detail of which I
wasn’t told.

Though we felt his behaviour was unpleasant we didn’t say anything. At the time we
were still quite young. His behaviour was more unpleasant than ever saying that Mr.
Oka’s scripts would be withdrawn and doing this as a matter of course. However to
say that the script would be withdrawn at this late hour was exceptional behaviour.
Without a doubt the theatre contingent couldn’t be any more annoying. It was most
unfortunate as Mr. Inoue had taken great pains to engage us for the task of writing
the script. His attempts to follow his thinking through ended in a quarrel so that as a
consequence amateurs were, amongst other things, worried and making excuses.
From then on there was more direct interference with the performance of outsiders’
scripts. Those nearby gave heed to what was happening, we became increasingly
timid and requested that the other person would agree to adopt a patient approach
with us. Soon one was troubled with malicious questions and inconvenient tasks.
Immediately the request had been made we all naturally readied ourselves as they
frequently responded with the sound Argh rather than speaking with an answer, or
so it seems* they are.

*Translator’s note: the word for ‘it seems’, yarō, might be a pun, or sharé as it also
means bastard or arsehole

Right there we divided up the scene and with borrowed writing brushes and paper
we bent down over the work on the tatami mats and got to work on the adaptation of
the third act. Many people there were confused and crowded in. Right after I
suggested that Mr. Oka write in his professional capacity. He certainly took on a
large chunk of the work. Anyway after a gap of just over thirty minutes the single act
was completely written in Jōruri. Anyway, though many witty remarks were made I
wasn’t thinking along those lines. In the circumstances it was more noticeable that
more theory than spirit had been directed towards what had been done. It had all
been written with more immediacy than before when it was as though it had been
thrown together. It was, in essence, regretful.

The workmanship there had improved. Two people were about to read it from the
beginning making corrections as they went when that certain Mr. Takeshiba
reappeared. It seems that changes needed to be made and he erupted demanding a
redraft. Subsequently the manuscript was handed over and after having read it the
first time he then read it over and over again. Yet again he started speaking about
redrafting at which we scowled. He didn’t particularly say anything other than the
brief phrase thank you very much. Afterwards he proposed writing the narrative
ending. Being really professional we did not oppose what was proposed. It seemed
that he was still cynical with what he had said. In his business role as chief

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playwright (tate sakusha) he wrote the narrative for the theatre programme. Actually
Mokuami wrote more. That one section of the Kabuki play was by now not weaker
than any of the others. He said that the value of the narrative is more desirable
when, as it ought to be, it was written out of knowledge, and that this was certainly
what you guys had been asked to do.

Yet in the circumstances it was said that some kind of substance had been lost and
that an insult would have been more ideal. Once again what had been written was
handed out. Could the full text of that narrative somehow be made public? The
venerable old man Tamura Nariyoshi published it in ”Zokuzoku Kabuki Nendaiki” (A
Sequential Kabuki Chronology). Though at the time he wrote it with the utmost of
effort after having read it he was unable to hide his embarrassment. He had been
completely mistaken in introducing it as an abbreviated storyline.

What was published was less than Takeshiba had asked for. Yet it was understood
that the existing business was undergoing a transformation and in the
circumstances, it was said, the particular request that had been made wasn’t fulfilled.
We quickly left, slipping away from the extremely unpleasant mood there. After I left I
felt relieved. It wasn’t yet the era of the electric tram. At Ginza Mr. Oka and I went
our separate ways. I was walking to the house in Kōjimachi. It was evening and as I
walked along the side of the moat I was thinking about a lot of things. So much
distress had been endured that I wondered whether I should continue working as a
playwright and if it would happen. It was understood, Mr. Oka asserted, that this
would be the preferable option and that it was not known whether or not it would be
preferable for the script to be completely retracted. After such a long time, and in the
circumstances, it was then that I felt that I couldn’t assume that it was over. At that
time I was thinking that it was my intention not to write any more plays. In my mind I
thought not, though my head was completely filled with unpleasant thoughts. Now
things are different. At the side of the moat there wasn’t much evening traffic. The
freezing wind of the twelfth month was blowing. On the dark and gloomy water wild
geese could be heard calling. I can vividly recall the scene at the time which has
stayed in my mind. At the time I was in the middle of writing the play ‘St. John’s Wort’
(Otogirisō). I immediately returned home and tucked away the manuscript deep
inside the bookcase.

My reasoning was that as regards my own work it was being performed anyway. Mr.
Oka and I felt that there wouldn’t be much more interest and our expectations were
fading. At the Kabukiza Theatre the opening was scheduled for 9th January and it
seemed that the results from that performance were disappointing. The drama critics’
reviews in the newspapers, which I didn’t read, were very cautionary though it seems
that there was praise in equal measure. In the ”Zokuzoku Kabuki Nendaiki” (A
Sequential Kabuki Chronology) it said that the second act of the Kabuki play was
“more from the head than from the heart”. I don’t really know how true it was.

If that really was the case then I bore it as the first defeat in my campaign. It was
said that in former times this was a samurai warrior’s traditional practice. It seemed
as though my first campaign would begin and end with failure. That I held onto this
defeat was inevitable. I’d wager that I could count thirty years from that era during
which, both internally and externally, the theatre world was enveloped in some
unusual circumstances. Certainly in comparison to those days today the theatre

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world is weaker for there having been an increase in the variety of bad practices.
Generally, it was as different as evening is from morning for it to be said whether
something was excellent. At the time we were having this performance the fee for
the four acts was 50 yen. I later heard it said that, a theoretical fee of 30 yen would
have been just about right, in which case it seemed excessively mischievous,
especially if the 50 yen fee situation had been as a result of Mr. Inoue. A real
heartfelt discontent was shared by the authors of the Kabuki play at their seat
allocation. If the situation allowed, amateurs should be freely encouraged to write.
From then on as writers we benefitted from our work being performed one after the
other. A rumour was heard that Mr. Inoue was extremely inconvenienced.

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Part 35 The Last Years of Kikugorō

Kampei’s Michiyuki Travel Dance – Art’s Tender Spirit – Yamanaka Heikurō – The
Final Part of Benten Kozō – The Sadness of Old Age

Meiji 36 (1903) brought for that era’s theatrical world a turbulent year that remains
conspicuous in my memory. In Meiji 20 (1887) there was an Imperial drama
performance at the mansion of Inoue Kaoru Minister for Foreign Affairs. This and the
Dangikusai memorial in Meiji 36 (1903) marking the deaths of Ichikawa Danjūrō IX
and Onoe Kikugorō V were two episodes especially mentioned as important events
in the Meiji Era’s history of drama.

For sure Danjūrō and Kikugorō didn’t die suddenly. Three to four years before I was
living in fearful expectation. In Meiji 33 (1900) Danjūrō was acting in the Kabukiza
Theatre’s March performance run as Soga Gorō in ’Yōchi Soga’* and as Kōchiyama
Sōshun in ’Kōchiyama’ as well. Because of illness he was absent halfway through
and he also had to voluntarily abandon the October performance run in similar
circumstances. That year Kikugorō also had to stop almost completely just over
halfway through until the conclusion of the performance run when he was working at
the Kabukiza Theatre in which he was performing the roles of Kampei, Honkura and
Akagaki Genzō in ‘The Treasury of Loyal Retainers’ (Chūshingura) and Watōnai in
‘The Battles of Coxinga’ (Kokusen’Ya Kassen). It was when he was playing Kampei
in the performance of Kampei’s Michiyuki Travel Dance (Ochiudo - The Fugitives),
and Nakamura Fukusuke IV was playing the role of Okaru and Onoe Matsusuke IV
the role of Bannai. Kikugorō was in his dressing room with the venerable old man
Jōno Saigiku and making himself up as Kampei by daubing pure white makeup on
his face.

In the middle of preparing Kampei’s face he was speculating like this. With respect
please accept what follows. I am a Kampei actor. Before now I often worked in
chapters five and six (of A Treasury of Loyal Retainers, Kanadehon Chūshingura,),
circumstances which also somehow didn’t involve working on Kampei’s Michiyuki
Travel Dance. I am a 57 year old actor. Isn’t it odd that the roll call for Kampei’s
Michiyuki Travel Dance is also my first? Well I’m the kind of person who is trying to
be a young person’s role model. Perhaps, finally, this is the most important role of
the season.

In reality that was perhaps the final most important role of the season that he was in.
Just past the middle of that November the opening performance of the play took
place. I was with three gentlemen, the playwright Matsui Shōyō, the critic and
playwright Oka Onitarō, and the Nihonga artist Kaburagi Kyokata. If I’m not mistaken
I remember it was the fourth day and we were watching from the central floor
hiradoma seating. Anyway we were waiting with increased interest to see that ‘most
important role’ of Kampei. As is usual in “The Fugitives” (Ochiudo) Kampei appeared
on the hanamichi walkway through the audience along with the vivacious youngster
Fukusuke who in those days was in his prime playing the beautiful Okaru who was
delightful in appearance and absolutely beautiful. We saw Okaru end the section

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with “someday wild geese will return home“. As one would expect we were in
admiration of Kikugorō. He also said within hearing that generally with the others it’s
more of an imitation of the dance. It was his view that this was not the ideal example
of Kampei’s Michiyuki Travel Dance that he taught. “Without love within the spirit is
disadvantaged, what is inside is that which is listened to which is prized from
moment to moment” was the exemplary instruction for Kampei’s Michiyuki Travel
Dance which was absent from what the others did. We could only gape and gawk.
Enthusiastically sketching this was Mr. Kyokata.

Matsui Shōyō Kaburagi Kyokata

As I write this I can clearly see the Kampei of those days in my mind’s eye. I still
think about events like this. Today many more accomplished actors also dance
odori. It seemed that Kikugorō could out dance anyone else. Nevertheless, no matter
how hard others might try, a kind of touch of gentleness needed to be observed on
stage with Kampei’s Michiyuki Travel Dance. Done with a touch of soft gentleness,
something that I had once seen that was difficult to remember (I don’t know for what
reason I make such a serious entreaty but nowadays I yearn for that occasion. I can
only say with certainty that only his creations were that worthy. Okaru and Kampei’s
Michiyuki Travel Dance likewise. The Edo authors all had her, Okaru, hold a
hakoseko (ornamental brocade cloth purse). The Lord granting to his servants the
Ladies in Waiting (gotenjochū) a holiday (yadosagari) was delightfully done.
Counting on the kind of work of that single person couldn’t be overdone. Takeda
Izumo’s original work is the much preferred essential point of reference to what is
happening. Even supposing that person was looking down on the stage from above,
it would perhaps seem as though the production values had not been entirely
dispensed with, almost but not quite. As I said before it was staged with a sort of mild
softness of touch). I seem to feel a sort of discomfort at being unable to suppress my
feelings of loss. However after such a long time these days, studying with
concentrated effort, those young inner circle actors in Okaru and Kampei’s Michiyuki
Travel Dance do not yield the ideal scene. Although it was produced more and more
it was confined just to a sort of on stage dance review. It is with profound realisation
that we are unable to say that we relished these in the same way as we did when
Kikugorō V’s staging was done with the gentle staging that I mentioned. I don’t know,
I’ve seen yet others who are perhaps still unable to rank alongside that person. In
general, he said, the arts are gentle, or something similar. It seems that in recent
years widespread supply and demand have both decreased. As I am writing this, I
don’t know whether it can be helped, there is an increase in similar events though at
the present time they might perhaps pose mostly questions. That is what is

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happening. In the olden days there were extraordinary people who questioned what
others did, nowadays people are composing together once there has been
consultation.

Comparatively soon Danjūrō and Kikugorō’s recovered from their illnesses and both
were soon back appearing on stage though their gradual decline became noticeable.
In December the following year Meiji 34 (1901) Kikugorō’s health again failed. The
following year, Meiji 35 (1902), he finally recovered. It was rumoured that, after such
a long time, in the May performance run Dankiku (Danjūrō and Kikugorō) would be
seen taking parts together in the plays. In his absence Kikugorō was assisted by a
group, Nakamura Shikan V (formerly Nakamura Fukusuke IV), Ichikawa Yaozō VII,
and Ichikawa Somegorō IV, who were all at the opening event at the same time. On
day one Kikugorō was undoubtedly beginning to fade. In the middle act, ‘Movements
of Spider’ (Kumo no Furumai)*, he played the role of Yorimitsu. Because he
professed to have fully recovered for the second act he was performing in the
independent scholar Mr. Ōchi’s new work ‘Yamanaka Heikurō’. Kikugorō played the
role of the main protagonist Heikurō, a role in which he was unexceptional. It was
rearranged so that as much as possible Kikugorō was able to convalesce with his
mobility restricted but still able to remain composed. Generally it was believed that
he was increasingly poorly. Personally for Kikugorō the more change came about the
more inactive he was until he had to leave, and was completely lost to, the stage.
Every time he was seen he was always lethargic.

*Translator’s note: Probably On Ivy a Spider Crawling on a Thread, Tsuta no Ito
Kumo no Furumai, probably a supernatural drama similar to Tsuchigumo, The Earth
Spider

Afterwards Danjūrō was withdrawn and took time off from continuing on stage.
Kikugorō also stayed away. At the Kabukiza Theatre’s October performance run it
had been a long time since Dangiku (Danjūrō and Kikugorō) had performed together.
The first act was ‘Mongaku’s Vow at Nachi Falls’ (Nachi no Taki Chikai no Mongaku).
Danjūrō played Endō Moritō, Kikugorō played Watanabe Wataru, and Shikan played
Kesa Gozen. The middle act was ’Sakaro’. Danjūrō played Higuchi, Shikan played
Ofude, Kataoka Ichizō III played Gonshirō, Yaozō played Shigetada, and Ichikawa
Metora II played Oyoshi. The second act was ’Bunshichi Mottoi’. Kikugorō played the
plasterer Chōbei, Onoe Eizaburō V played his wife, Onoe Ushinosuke II played his
daughter, and Ichimura Kakitsu VI played the sales clerk Bunshichi. It really was
thought that, with this, Dangiku (Danjūrō and Kikugorō) both seemed to have been
rejuvenated in order to make their final effort. It was more than had been expected
from both actors whose service had been conspicuous. It still seemed as though
that, for the present, their fame and life on stage was their universal calling. For play
goers feelings were running a little bit high. Of course their strong roles were
popular. For that performance run there was a fine full house. Then the entrance
fees for seats were for one sajiki gallery room 8 yen 80 sen, for a takadoma dirt floor
box 7 yen 70 sen, and for one hiradoma central floor room 6 yen 70 sen. Matting for
one room was set separately at 50 sen.

It was a big hit and as there was taste for it, in quick succession, the Kabukiza
Theatre unwrapped its November performance run. The first act was the Mansion of
Hikiroku in the Maruzuka Mountains Scene from ‘Satomi Hakkenden’. Danjūrō

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played Inuyama Dōsetsu, Kakitsu played Inukawa Sōsuke, Yaozō played Aboshi
Samojirō, Shikan played Hamaji, and Matsusuke played Hikiroku. The first of the
middle acts was the suburban Kyōto residence (Kinai Sumika) Scene from ‘The
Loyal Samurai’ (Taiheiki Chūshin Kōshhaku). Danjūrō played Hazama Jūtarō,
Kikugorō played Hazama Kinai, and Shikan played Orie. The second of the middle
acts was ’Takatoki’. Danjūrō played Takatoki. The second act was ’Benten Kozō.
The five men were played by Kikugorō as Benten Kozō, Yaozō as Nippon Daemon,
Kakitsu as Nangō Rikimaru, Eizaburō as Akaboshi Jūzaburō, and Somegorō as
Tadanobu Rikei. Though the assignment of roles was not fixed this was who they
were usually played by. On the first day the only Kabuki play that Dangiku (Danjūrō
and Kikugorō) appeared in together was the middle act, ‘The Loyal Samurai’
(Taiheiki Chūshin Kōshhaku).

In October Kikugorō unexpectedly actively participated on stage. Sadly his health
was still affected and he was at the time sadly tormented by trembling spasms. At
that performance run his weakened state was apparent. He had been ill since winter
of the previous year and his health had been so badly affected that he had hardly
worked at all. It could be seen that his gait was oddly affected and this time his frailty
was obvious when he appeared on stage in public. From the beginning the proprietor
of the theatre chose to disguise him as an invalid in his role as Kinai in the Kabuki
play ‘The Loyal Samurai’ (Taiheiki Chūshin Kōshhaku). As he was unable to walk
and was completely immobile he also came up with some suggestions for the
scenes. Sitting in a crib he would simply speak his dialogue which wouldn’t be
particularly burdensome. He wouldn’t be able to manage the second act ’Benten
Kozō’ very well because there were too many things happening. The entrance of
Benten and Nangō in the Hamamatsuya Draper Shop Scene was to be omitted. His
appearance in the scene of the line up on the banks of the Inasegawa River on the
hanamichi walkway through the audience was also to be omitted as the moment
when the five men would stand in a row would have been particularly risky and as a
consequence detrimental to the performance. And yet there were five people who
each took their turn making their speeches. What was being used to help him stand
was hidden from view. On stage his body was supported by an upright iron pole
which could be seen from behind. When I saw that I was unable to suppress my
emotions and was very despondent.

’Benten Kozō’ was written in March Bunkyū 2 (1862). Kikugorō was at the time still
called Ichimura Uzaemon XIII and was successful at the age of 19 as a leading
actor. When speaking about Kikugorō I am straight away reminded that both he and
his association with the Kabuki play Benten Kozō which brought him great success
became increasingly very well-known. It seems that 40 years later I must mourn with
increasing sadness this great stage presence. Certainly it’s natural for the conditions
of old age to take their effect on a human being. That someone after such a long
time is becoming elderly is something about which my heart, skipping a beat, is
broken. This is especially so for someone like that whose occupation is as an actor
as this establishes physical limits on the capabilities of the elderly, something I
dislike being reminded of.

In those days when I was a great deal younger I was around about that time much
more liable to feelings of sentimentality. On the way back from the theatre on that
day when I had been to see ‘Benten Kozō’ my head was spinning with a great

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number of thoughts about the circumstances at the time. Then there were as yet no
electric trains. I returned travelling from the rickshaw terminal at Ginza to the
Hanzōmon Gate of the Imperial Palace at a cost of 10 sen. Hibiya Park was
unfinished and still under construction. On a gloomy early winter’s evening a few
lonely stars shone their faint light upon a sprawling lawn. There was no awning on
the vehicle and it was cold. I was fidgeting with my sleeves and all the while lying
face down on the ground and wandering about. That year, in April, I had lost my
father. Thoughts about the infirmity of old age that Kikugorō faced were gnawing at
my mind. I don’t know to what extent I could possibly have helped. My father had
also liked ‘Benten Kozō’ as a newly written play.

For many years Danjūrō and Kikugorō stood together on the same stage and that
performance of ‘The Loyal Samurai’ (Taiheiki Chūshin Kōshhaku) was the last time
that happened. Kikugorō’s final appearance on stage was in this performance of
’Benten Kozō’. The following February 18th of Meiji 36 (1903) at the age of 60 his
departure was announced, his legacy his immortal fame in the theatrical world.

Another Showing of Lady Kasuga no Tsubone – Kakitsu’s Name Change – One
Evening at Oomori – The Decline of Kabuki – After the Deaths of Dangiku (Danjūrō
and Kikugorō)

I felt considerably sentimental when I talked about Onoe Kikugorō V’s death. Once
again I must talk about another death, that of Ichikawa Danjūrō IX. Today the critics
say that Kabuki drama is in ruins, etc., etc. Surely, to put it succinctly, it is sufficient
to say that genuine Kabuki drama perished with the deaths of both these people. It
seemed somewhat more atypical afterwards, having been subjected to a transition
from old to new.

Before I continue I should say that it would seem that Danjūrō as well as Kikugorō
had of late been suffering from ill health and that he of the same generation would
within slightly more than six months suffer the same fate as Kikugorō. Like that their
many years of friendship had ended and their families were bereaved. Kikugorō’s
orphan Onoe Ushinosuke II inherited the name of Onoe Kikugorō VI, Onoe Eizaburō
V became Onoe Baikō VI, and Onoe Eizō became Onoe Eizaburō VI. Each name
change* was announced (at the March 1903) Kabukiza Theatre’s performance run at
which Danjūrō personally made an eloquent Kōjō ceremonial announcement. At the
time the Kabuki plays were first ‘A Record of Kiyomasa’s Loyalty’ (Kiyomasa Seichū
Roku), and second ‘The Maple Leaves of Kabuki in Full Bloom’ (Hanazakari Kabuki
no Momijiba). The middle act ‘Soga Brother's Confrontation’ (Soga no Taimen) was
the pretext for the announcement of the name changes. The casting was Baikō as
Jūrō, Kikugorō as Gorō, Eizaburō as Hachiman no Saburō, and Danjūrō as Kudō. By
this time their names had already been changed with their guild and the only real
name change that took place was Eizaburō’s. Eizaburō had not yet been included
with the other new people who had their names changed alongside Kikugorō
because he was still an adolescent** and still considered a child. The grief they felt
at the loss of such a great actor was heavy and they were treated with a great deal
of compassion. He was famous for having played many strong roles and he had
been happy with the results at the performances. In April Ansei 4 (1857) the second
act, then a new work by Ōchi koji (aka Fukuchi Gen’ichiro), played at Saruwaka
Machi’s Moritaza Theatre when he (Kikugorō V) played the role of Tenjiku Tokubei.
In the middle of the performance a dramatic incident occurred when a man in the
audience, a Kumamoto samurai, leapt onto the stage and made as though to kill the
character of Ichikawa Ichizō who is disguised as Tenjiku Tokubei. That samurai was
actually a role played by Ichikawa Gonjūrō (later Arashi Rikaku III), the next actor to
participate in the play. There was a great deal of scepticism as to whether this was
an authentic account. There wasn’t much interest in the play which was mostly
criticised. For those within Koji’s production it wasn’t very popular either.

Translator’s note:
*here 改名 kamei is used for name change – the modern usage is 襲名 shumei
**the phrase used here chichi no ka 乳の香, ‘the fragrance of breasts’, is an idiomatic
phrase meaning immature, or babyish

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‘Hanazakari Kabuki no Momijiba’ at the Kabukiza March Meiji 36 (1903)
Left to right: Ichikawa Gonjūrō as Ooyano Gonojō, Ichimura Kakitsu IV as Ichikawa Ichizō and Tenjiku Tokubei, Nakamura
Shikan V as Geisha Kogane
(Japanese Arts Council on line nishiki-e collection)

Danjūrō was able to safely play a role in that (March 1903) performance run and
again in the May performance run when he was able enough to act in a play. The
Kabuki plays were first ‘Lady Kasuga’ (Kasuga no Tsubone), then the middle act
‘The Lost Dress Coat’ (Suō Otoshi), and the second ‘Komagata Osen’ (aka Onna
Date Komagata Osen, possibly referring to Onna Date). Danjūrō only appeared in
the first as he played two roles, Kasuga no Tsubone and Tokugawa Ieyasu for which
there were costume changes. He was in the same play in June Meiji 24 (1891) at the
same theatre when he first performed Ōchi Koji’s work. For Danjūrō this was the
second time. His emaciated figure was strikingly noticeable. It did perhaps cause
some foreboding that he would not be embracing the future changes of the stage.
Kikugorō had died. Danjūrō had been seen on stage for a long time. It was inevitable
that the future world of Tōkyō drama would be transformed. There was a lot more
furtive knitting of eyebrows amongst theatre goers. As had happened previously,
before he could work anymore he disappeared, ending his work. He spent some time
on holiday that summer and during a pleasant autumn at his villa in Chigasaki*
taking a break from mid-summer and mid-winter plays, something he had been doing
for years.

*Translator’s note: in 1897/1898 Danjūrō built a villa which was called Koshō-an at
Kowada in Chigasaki, which was then a village. It is now a children’s playground in
Heiwa-chō Koban on Teppō michi where a monument has been built and which is
now referred to as Danjūrō-yama.

At the time Ichimura Uzaemon XV was still called Ichimura Kakitsu VI. That year in
the autumn performance run he would be taking the name of Ichimura Uzaemon XV.
The announcement was made at the Matsuasa restaurant in Oomori District to which
every newspaper critic had been invited. An event to which I, as the newspaper
“Tōkyō Nichi Nichi Shimbun”’s drama critic and journalist, had also been invited. It
seemed like autumn that morning. It was Sunday, 13 th September, and a gentle rain
was falling. I went to the restaurant and arrived at the appointed time, 5pm in the
afternoon. The disciple of the aforementioned Ichimura, Bandō Ayame who was from
the Kantō Region was waiting on them and serving the food. Including me almost all
the gentlemen from each of the newspaper companies were in attendance though
his master Kakitsu hadn’t turned up. He was at Chigasaki where things were not
good and to where, that morning, expressions of sympathy were sent. Ayame kept
saying how sorry he was.
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Danjūrō’s condition had worsened they said, a message that was also passed to the
Press. The public also already knew. Naturally we already knew. In light of the news
we all knew that it was uncertain whether, given the circumstances, he would be able
this time to recover again. His heart was under tremendous strain though only that
day he had been chatting a lot with Ayame. Everyone was mingling and during
pauses exchanging their sympathies talking about their sadness that Horikoshi (his
birth name) was finally moving beyond hope. Our foreboding had become reality. We
were also told that ‘Kasuga no Tsubone’ had been the final stage event. Along with
the others there I posted my report to my company by telephone with lowered voice
that Danjūrō’s critical illness was final.

It was very calm. The day was a little bit chilly and was quickly made overcast by the
rain. That afternoon by about 6pm on Oomori District’s beach it had become really
dark. Kakitsu arrived wearing a frock coat and hurried upstairs. His greeting was very
polite. He said thank you very much, and that he had arrived after having
determinedly galloped from Chigasaki. Speaking quickly he said that this afternoon
Danjūrō had finally died. He spoke at length and in great detail about the
circumstances of his death. Though we had been resigned to this happening now
that we knew the news with certainty we all suddenly felt gloomy.

Danjūrō had been entrusted with and expected to make the Kōjō ceremonial
announcement at Kakitsu’s name change. Now that he had gone Kakitsu, who was
the star performer, seemed somewhat dejected. He had been like this ever since
and had made half-hearted attempts to entrust this to others. He would sooner have
entrusted himself as the person to make the Kōjō ceremonial announcement and it
was decided by those to whom he had said this that ‘it would be best if we were to
provide instruction’. This was done for no other reason than because of what he had
said to others. Anyway because this was being done for that reason he made a
speech saying he had been explicitly invited to hold this unique honour and to
‘please pardon my manners’. Though it was raining incessantly Kakitsu retraced his
steps to Chigasaki in the downpour.

Afterwards, in his zashiki tatami mat room, he became increasingly depressed.
Arrangements had to be made for the dead Danjūrō. The people from the newspaper
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companies which published articles every day of the year also left quickly after he
had gone. When he came back straight away on the Monday we did the inevitable
and suspended publication. Ayame seemed so pitiful and had switched off until later
on in the evening when it was getting late when he started to talk again and
speculate about the deceased. The autumn rain was still pouring down and the
lonely sound of the darkened sea could be heard. That evening was a really desolate
one. Danjūrō was born in Tenpō 9 (1838). I heard that he was 66 years old when he
died. His funeral took place one week later and was arranged by Aoyama cemetery.
On that day it also poured down with rain.

The situation was that Kikugorō had been lost earlier. It had undoubtedly been a
heavy loss for Tōkyō’s theatrical world. This situation continued with the loss of
Danjūrō which did further heavy damage. It was said that it was as if the torches that
had been carried to light the dark night had been lost. My heart felt that, and I really
believed it really was the time when things would change from old to new.
Wondering what would happen to Kabuki was something that was keenly felt. In
recent years the Shinpa New School of Drama had arrived and it had suddenly risen
to the peak of prosperity. Now Kabuki was an enemy country and indications were
that it had seen better days of prosperity. Then when the heavy damage was heard
about, Kabuki was in decline as the Shinpa New School of Drama reached the
height of its prosperity. There were types of literature text such as ”Mōgyū”* that
everyone referred to and was taught. That sort of thing was lost on outsiders. I heard
a report that with Danjūrō’s death the actors of the Shinpa New School of Drama
were doing something and that evening had gathered in a restaurant in the
Shinbashi District and that before very long, and in advance of it happening, were
celebrating in advance what the whole world ought to have known about. I was
dumbfounded and the story was an exaggeration. Be that as it may, there was a
connection in that at Chigasaki Kawakami Otojirō had similarly built a villa and that
he was constantly, every day, at Danjūrō’s villa. It helped that everyone found the
School of Ichikawa inspiring. That it was this significant was understood. It was, as
could be expected, as if Kawakami was such a clever person that he could be
deemed admired, ridiculed and criticised in equal measure. Though fans were
insiders it was the public who were the key players in advance of any
commemoration. Assisting from the beginning to the end of the funeral service he
conducted himself with enthusiasm. I ineffectually regarded him with nothing but
looks of contempt at his impropriety. As could be expected I thought that was all I
should do with the chief of the Shinpa New School of Drama. Kawakami later died. I
wasn’t inclined to do any flag waving for the Shinpa New School of Drama. It would
have been a waste of time for anyone to do any celebrating beforehand.

*Translator’s note: ”Mōgyū” is the earliest written manuscript of Kan’on readings of
the Heian Period (794-1086) written in the Chōshō Era (1132-1134)

I’ve felt it necessary to talk a lot, perhaps too much, about the events surrounding
Danjūrō and Kikugorō. I’ve especially mentioned some anecdotes about their sort of
talks on their arts. A variety of these records I’ve laid out with my writing which I
bequeath to posterity. I have explained the other events from an insider’s
perspective. Posthumously little was said in the theatrical world about Dangiku
(Danjūrō and Kikugorō).

207
In the meantime, and to start with, the Kabukiza Theatre was coming along with its
case strategy. The problem was that many in society were drawing away
circumspectly. Without a doubt this was causing the theatre manager-proprietor
much anxiety. Something which was significantly new was that Ichikawa Gonjūrō I
had joined Kikugorō in being referred to as a ‘gama’ (iron kettle), something to which
Kikugorō had been referred to in his later years. In recent years he had developed
the same delicate constitution and had once been slightly incapacitated and had
withdrawn from the same theatre from where he went to his Kamakura villa and was
completely confined indoors. Additionally, after that, in his role as an iron pot he had
sent an invitation to Kataoka Gatō III in Ōsaka. Kataoka Gatō III later became
Kataoka Nizaemon XI. The troupe’s cast consisted of Nakamura Shikan V, Ichikawa
Yaozō VII, Uzaemon, Kataoka Ichizō III, Ichikawa Komazō VIII, Ichikawa Metora II,
Onoe Baikō VI, Nakamura Kichiemon I, Onoe Matsusuke IV, and Kikugorō.

(Translator’s note: Though Kido makes no mention of the date at this point in the text
the date for what follows in the next paragraph would have been October 1903 at the
Kabukiza when Ichimura Kakitsu IV took the name of Ichimura Uzaemon XV)

The first act, a work by Mokuami which first opened on the Shintomiza Theatre’s
stage in (June) Meiji 11 (1878), was ‘The Thriving Pines and the Divine Virtues of
Chiyoda’ (Matsu no Sakae Chiyoda no Shintoku, about the Life of Tokugawa
Ieyasu), the middle act was ‘The Tale of Yoshitsune’ (Gikeiki) in one act, it was at
this point in the programme, with ‘Benkei in the Boat’ (Funa Benkei), that Uzaemon’s
name change was to happen as he was unable to resist being called the nadai,
leading actor, for his part in ‘Benkei in the Boat’ (Funa Benkei); for his part of the
theatre programme production he went out of his way to change the title of ‘The
Chronicle of Yoshitsune’ (Yoshitsune Ki) - so he could do the same thing. Uzaemon
played the sea spirit Tomomori. The second part of the programme was Gatō’s
production of ‘Mirror of the Double Sided Paper Kimono’ (Kamiko Jitate Ryōmen
Kagami). The performance run opened from the middle of October.

Gatō travelled to Tōkyō’s Kabukiza Theatre to work. While he was there he became
anxious about the criticism he was getting from some people. Incidentally, a few
years ago he happened come on board with Danjūrō at the theatre in Ōsaka’s
Umeda Ward. He regarded Danjūrō, his senior, with an increasingly haughty attitude.
He refused to appear together with Danjūrō on stage. With that Danjūrō, immediately
closed his eyes, and afterwards in his approach towards that person coming on
board called him an iron pot saying that he was an outrageously rude chap. Losing
face Gatō attempted to justify himself with the reason that they had quarrelled a few
years ago and that since then there were a variety of potential matters to be
considered. He said that he hadn’t meant to dare to be rude to his senior. At the time
when he was in Tōkyō he was living near Aoyama and visited Danjūrō’s tomb, a few
years having passed since they had seen each other, and when he arrived he said
that he had apologised. Anyway, I didn’t understand the rights and wrongs of the
situation but that the circumstances surrounding the criticism he had received had
certainly not been to his advantage. It was unusual for that theatre programme to
have been doing Sukeroku in ‘The Paper Kimono’ (Kamiko). I understood that the
story surely should be done with Gidayū recitation which on stage was only shown at
the beginning. The Tōkyō audience was not at all pleased.

208
The tomb of Ichikawa Danjūrō IX
Aoyama Cemetery, Tōkyō

From Ōsaka Gatō acted on the invitation he had received. Uzaemon, Ichikawa
Chūsha VI, and Kōshirō all agreed. They were all inclined, at the time, to give
instruction. In those days Kakitsu was still with Nakayama Hyakuzō II and Komazō.
They were still very popular and drew the audiences which hadn’t been attending.
Although increasingly complimented Kakitsu, Yaozō, and Komazō did after all owe
their existence to Danjūrō and Kikugorō. It was doubtful that they acknowledged the
origins of their independence on the Kabukiza Theatre’s grand stage. Influenced by
this and that the performance run ended in failure. They opened again from the 21 st
November. The Kabuki plays listed for this were first ‘Sugawara’s Secrets of
Calligraphy’ (Sugawara Denju Tenarai Kagami), then the middle act was ‘The
Legend of Tsubosaka’ (Tsubosaka Reigenki), and then the second act was
’Mikazuki’ (probably Shitennō Yagura no Ishizue), and Oogiri from ‘Love Letters from
the Licensed Quarter’ (Kuruwa Bunshō). Shikan was easily removed and left out at
an early stage. The troupe was increasingly isolated and eventually, with
increasingly small attendances, it closed down.

‘Danjūrō, Kikugorō, how I am missing you. I’m really not interested in watching at
Kobiki-chō Street’ (Edo Era site of the Kabukiza Theatre).

I often heard a voice like this. Posthumously everyone considered Dangiku (Danjūrō
and Kikugorō)’s work as the ideal, a time which I increasingly bring to mind. I had
seen that actors and promoters looked as if they were trapped by fate into losing
their heads on a guillotine.

Translator’s notes:
Danjūrō was survived by his two daughters Ichikawa Suisen and Ichikawa Kyobai,
both actresses
Uzaemon’s shumei was not uneventful. A huge row blew up in 1903 in Ōsaka
involving some of the leading lights of the Kabuki Theatre, and Shikan in particular.
For more details see http://www.scribd.com/doc/70489603/Section-65-of-the-story-
of-Ichimura-Uzaemon-十五代-羽左衛門

In those days it was said that the theatres were having to adapt to developing
conditions. Since June (1904) the Meijiza Theatre had been closed (for renovation).
The cast of Nakamura Tokizō I, Nakamura Shikaku I, Nakamura Kichiemon I, and
Nakamura Kangorō XII had opened at the Ichimuraza Theatre but the results were
not very good and there had been no profit. Ichikawa Sadanji I’s troupe had opened
at the Tōkyōza Theatre that September.

The Tōkyōza Theatre in Kanda’s Misaki-chō was a Grand Theatre. In March Meiji 30
(1897) Danjūrō was acting in the ceremonial performance run to mark the theatre’s
opening. He played Shigetada in ‘The Soga Brother’s Fur Cushion’ (Shikigawa no
Soga), Watōnai in ‘The Battles of Coxinga’ (Kokusen’ya Kassen), and Takasago no
Jōhyōe in ‘Only Two’ (Ninin Bakari, aka Futari Bakari). In that era the biggest
problem was difficulty of access. It also seems stupid that this was the way things
had developed. For six to seven years things remained the same and somehow or
other these conditions were endured. Sadanji’s troupe joined up and raised the
curtain there while the Meijiza Theatre was closed. Posthumously it can be said that
with the deaths of Dangiku (Danjūrō and Kikugorō) Sadanji was, as an individual,
peerless. In September Tokizō, Ichikawa Komazō VIII, and Ichimura Kakitsu VI
joined the troupe and started off being cast in the first act in ‘Tales of Kōmon’
(Kōmonki), in the middle act in ’Kusunoki Masashige’, and in the second act in
‘Matsuda’s Fight’ (Matsuda no Kenka). In November Nakamura Shikan IV, Ichikawa
Ennosuke I, and Sawamura Gennosuke IV joined Sadanji’s troupe and took starting
parts in the first act in ‘Tadanobu Wields a Go Board’ (Goban Tadanobu), in the
middle act in ‘Young Toyotomi Hideyoshi: The Young Cherry Tree’ (Hiyoshimaru
Wakaki no Sakura), and in the second act in ‘Yanagisawa’s Rebellion’ (Yanagisawa
Sōdō’, aka Umeyanagi Wakabano Kagazome by Tsuruya Nanboku IV). There had
been a couple of occasions when, both before and after, business conditions had not
been favourable. Around then things changed when it became obvious that Sadanji’s
energy was noticeably fading and that subsequently his eyes had swollen.
Historically Sadanji was one of those people who gave it his all on stage. With his
decline and swollen eyes he seemed such a lonely lost character on stage. The
deaths of Dangiku (Danjūrō and Kikugorō) had frightened everyone into a kind of
gloomy premonition. In spite of this he monopolised his performance in ‘Tadanobu
Wields a Go Board’ (Goban Tadanobu) and on Yoshinoyama Mountain in the snow
he fought everyone in the tachimawari stage fight. Ennosuke played Yokogawa
Chauhan (a warrior monk) who, in a rough style, beat them all down. He appeared in
huge Yori armour, a massive Kabuto helmet and, waving the point of his sword
strenuously around, his bearing was appropriately exaggerated. With such an
excellent sight my heart went pitter-patter. I dare say others in the audience would
also have agreed with me.

The Kabukiza Theatre started Grand Theatre. Everything else that resembled it was
prone to falling into recession. It was as if the 15th anniversary of the establishment
of the Kabukiza Theatre enhanced its reputation. In November especially cheap

210
performance runs were discontinued after the completion of market testing. In the
interim there was only one thing, the Shinpa New Drama Plays at the Hongōza
Theatre, that seemed to benefit from the popularity of standing only admissions.
Here Kawakami Otojirō and (Madame) Sadayakko as a man and wife team took
important leading roles. Fujisawa Asajirō, Satō Toshizō, Kojima Fumie, and
Nakamura Nobuchika were all members of the troupe. In November they performed
an adaptation of the story ‘Hamlet’ (Hamuretto). Every day was full and they
prospered. I could see that they mostly overtook Kabuki drama.

It was like this as Meiji 36 (1903) came to an end. Kabuki drama was in the shade,
there was one arrogant person in the Shinpa New Drama movement and the
previous sovereignty of our theatre world, as was being witnessed, later had to adapt
from old to newer times. A case in point was when in February the following year
Meiji 37 (1904) the curtain opened on the Russo-Japanese War. It was in my mind. I
thought the same when the Kabuki contingent increasingly highlighted the shadow of
the day of the great flood. Recently with the First Sino-Japanese War the Kabuki
clique had been successful at defeating the Shinpa New School. At that time they
had been building up a good strong hold. It had been held for ten years and at this
time of the year it had come around once again. Dangiku (Danjūrō and Kikugorō)
who had both been going strong and had been managing had since died. Just then
Sadanji was in decline and it was his predicament to be in what are called reduced
circumstances, and was in need of assistance. War was unexpectedly once again
upon us. Kabuki was doomed, and the Shinpa New School was in favour. Isn’t it a
fact that their destiny was, as a matter of course, defined by the changing times…

I was biding my time and keeping a little distance before making a decision and
moving in a similar direction. At the time I was with the Tōkyō Nichinichi Shimbun
Sha newspaper company. Before the declaration of war I had been working on the
editorial board and had been extremely busy. Once again I was to leave for the
battle front with the Second Army on an official tour. Out of consideration for whom,
and in the tumultuous circumstances, it would have been out of the question to play
a peeping tom on the unfolding drama. As I was myself in charge of drama criticism I
asked Mr. Miki Takeji (aka Mori Tokujiro, Mori Ōgai's brother) to take responsibility
for it. I worked with the editorial board who were very busy working day and night on
the preparation for the campaign to which I was being sent. As a consequence there
was regrettably very little to go on by way of material on the state of affairs in the
theatrical world. While I was very busy I happened to hear that the Shinpa New
School had managed to insinuate themselves into the situation and were performing
war plays one after the other. Apropos that Fukuchi Ōchi’s work ‘In Praise of the
Naval Fleet’s Night Attack‘ (Kantai Homare no Yoikusa, aka Kantai Homare no
Yashū) was being performed at the Kabukiza Theatre whilst Mr. Matsui Shōyō‘s work
‘The Enemy Nation’s Surrender’ (Tekikoku Kōfuku) was being performed at the
Meijiza Theatre. The former was a dramatization of a true story about the home
Naval Fleet’s sinking of the Russian Warship Retvizan. The latter was dramatization
of the Mongolian invasion during the Kamakura Period. Both had sets of the
locations included in the productions. I had been told about this beforehand as,
having no spare time, I was unable to watch them. Other minor theatres competed
by laying on performances of war plays.

211
My attention was caught during that time by the decision of Tōkyōza Theatre to play
Dr. Tsubōchi Shōyō’s ‘Falling Paulownia Leaf’ (Kirihitoha) for its March performance
run and the Kabukiza Theatre’s decision to play Dr. Mori Ōgai’s ‘Nichiren Shōnin’s
Street Sermon’ (Nichiren Shōnin Tsuji Seppō) for its April performance run. The
former had been part of the usual schedule that had been decided on before the
outbreak of war even though it was still a subject that was taken into consideration
as a consequence of it. Of course I understood that this had nothing to do with the
situation. The Mongolian invasion was the background for the latter. Nichiren was
preaching near where there was to be an invasion by a foreign country (Translator’s
note: traditionally he had predicted the Mongol invasion). It felt a little as though the
current situation was being slightly hinted at and that it seemed as though it was
being shown at the theatre as a consequence. All this took place in the midst of war
hysteria. What literary scholars’ productions were listed were entirely different from
the usual crop of authors’ perceived Kabuki plays. The public valued it and I could
see the attraction.

The principal cast list for the principal actors for ‘Falling Paulownia Leaf’ (Kiri Hitoha)
was Kataoka Gatō III as Katagiri Katsumoto, Shikan as Yodo no Kata, Komazō as
Kimura Shigenari, and Sawamura Tosshō III as Ginnojō. I can’t really say why I
didn’t watch it. I heard that Yodo no Kata (aka Yodo-dono) and Ginnojō were
extremely popular. The cast list for ‘Street Sermon’ (Tsuji Seppō) was Ichikawa
Yaozō VII as Nichiren, Uzaemon as Shinshi Tarō, Kataoka Ichizō III as Hiki Daigaku
Saburō (a follower of Nichiren), and Onoe Baikō VI as the daughter Tae. Though I
was busy working for Newspaper Company in the Ginza near the Kabukiza Theatre I
managed to sneak away in the middle of my work and was able to watch this act. At
that time a swarm of newspaper boys were waiting for the finished print of a news
extra that was to be published. A large intrusive crowd was swirling around the
company front door waiting for this bulletin so instead I avoided them by going
through the print room and out into the alleyway. In the unexpected April weather I
was oozing sweat until, out of breath, I cut short my scurrying when I reached Kobiki-
chō. I wasn’t really in that much of a hurry. En route I unfortunately let slip my
handkerchief and entering from the street I embarrassingly wiped off the sweat,
drying myself.

Later I left Tōkyō and watched the movie reel of Manchuria’s vast stage play out. I
was later on unable to get any news about the theatre world from the Press. The
newspapers and letters that were sent to me from my homeland were full of stories
about the war. The news of the entertainment world that I craved I knew nothing
about.

Kidō at a farewell party in Tōkyō in 1904 just before he left for Manchuria
http://kidojibutsu.web.fc2.com/contents/archives.html

212
Just after the middle of September I thought back on everything that had happened
that year. As the Battle of Liaoyang ended with our victory I was, at that time, billeted
in a village north of the citadel gate called Dà Zhǐ Fáng**.

Translator’s note:
*In ‘Hanashi no Hanashi’ 「はなしの話」(Tales of Tales) Kidō refers to the north
gate, 北門外,kita mongai, rather than north of the castle, 城北, jōhoku. The English
phrase ‘north of the citadel gate’ has been used
**大紙房 is rendered in Katakana in Okamoto Kidō’s book ‘Hanashi no Hanashi’ as
‘Ta Shi Fan’ 「タ-シ-ファン」(courtesy of Kaori Otani). In Pinyin it is rendered as
Dà Zhǐ Fáng

Manchuria’s autumn was brisk and already at twilight a light cold wind was blowing.
We were notified that post for us had arrived from the homeland and we hurried over
to Division Headquarters to pick it up. There were about five or six letters and a
bundle of about twelve days’ worth of newspapers addressed to Okamoto. I tucked
them under my arm and headed back to my lodgings just as night fell. It was cold
and a cricket was chirping under the floor. It was dusk and I was dependant on the
light from a candle. Firstly I read all of the letters written from home that had been
sent in the post. Afterwards I untied the bundle of newspapers. As I gradually read
my way through them, just like that, I discovered in an 8th August edition of the
newspaper an article that had been published which announced the death of
Ichikawa Sadanji on the previous day, the 7th.

‘Did Sadanji finally die as well then?’.

The final time he had performed when I had been watching was the previous year at
the Tōkyōza Theatre’s production of ‘Tadanobu Wields a Go Board’ (Goban
Tadanobu). From this point on someone else as well as Dangiku (Danjūrō and
Kikugorō) had perished. I suddenly felt a little lonely and going outside wandered
aimlessly about. For fifteen nights this last month the moon had shone brightly,
lighting up the landscape. Leaves were scattered about and a willow appeared
beautifully white in the moonlight. From somewhere a mule could be heard braying. I
had noticed the previous year that he had been weakening. I hadn’t expected to hear

213
the report of his death on this battlefield this autumn. It was eight years since I had
first seen him at the Shintomiza theatre as Atsumi Gorō (in “Akematsu Manyū and
the White Plum Banner” - Akematsu Manyū Ume no Shirahata, see Part 2). Had that
many years passed already? Which strong roles could I recall from my memory of
those intervening years? Afterwards, though it was getting late, with thoughts turning
over in my mind I was unable to sleep.

With my campaign duty finished at an appropriate time I returned to Tōkyō. War
plays were already in decline. As had happened at the time of the First Sino-
Japanese War the Shinpa New School sent Kawakami and Fujisawa from Tōkyō,
Takada Minoru (see Parts 20, 22 and 25) from Ōsaka, and Shizuma Kojirō from
Kyōto on a battle front inspection. Certainly if the truth be known they hadn’t been
allowed to go into the battle front areas. It seemed that when they arrived in the
vicinity of Korea or Dalian (aka Port Arthur) they were turned back most of the time.
They raised the curtain on and sold performances of both. At the time of the First
Sino-Japanese War the results were limited and they didn’t do very good business or
improve profits. The post war period was the nouveau riche era (the phrase nouveau
riche is used here for the first time). Though there are various meanings generally it
was human nature that those who were able to eventually live a life of dazzling
luxury were influenced and pulled in the direction of Kabuki drama. Kabuki
fortunately avoided the difficulty of the flood whereas on the contrary it brought about
a state of deadlock for the Shinpa New School.

My story which I began long ago ends here. It comes to an end with the deaths of
Dankikusa (Danjūrō, Kikugorō and Sadanji). With nothing but feelings of humility “I
lay down my writing brush in this dying hour”…

Photographic images published before December 31st 1956, or photographed
before 1946 and not published for 10 years thereafter, under jurisdiction of the
Government of Japan, are considered to be public domain according to article 23 of
old copyright law of Japan and article 2 of supplemental provision of copyright law of
Japan

*Translator’s note: After his death, Okamoto Kyōichi, his former Shosei (a student
who is given room and board in exchange for performing domestic duties) and
adopted son, established a publishing company named 'Seiabo' for the purpose of
preserving Kidō's works